Quotes About Memory

What does it all mean if I don't have family? If my mother is in the cold, hard ground?

Mick: What do you remember from when you were four? Josef: Well it was 1603 Mick, it's reasonable to be a little hazy.

Thanks a lot, Allie." I grimaced not for the first time at the realization that he couldn't remember my name, then I decided I was definitely over the guy. "You're welcome, Bart." "Brad." "Kate." "Huh?" I wanted to laugh. "I'm Kate.

I haven't had cotton candy in forever," he said. "I'd forgotten how…sugary it is." "It's pure sugar." "I wonder who invented it." "I think it was a dentist." He laughed, a laugh that revealed his perfect smile, his perfect teeth. "I'll bet you're right.

You remember my roommate, Brad, right?" Since he made a nightly appearance in my dreams and was plastered all over my computer screen at home, yeah, I remembered him.

Researchers say that sketching helps extend the memory. That these throwaway scribblings "reduce the burden we experience" as we're trying to remember something or solve a problem.

She had devoted her life to remembering. And yet she'd failed. She had, somewhere across the years, forgotten what she'd once understood. What Ester Velasquez had understood. That desire was the only truth worth following.

How do we know that our life really happened and that we are not simply accumulating details, making it all up as we go along?

Documenting life as it happened seemed like a way of not experiencing it. As if posing for photographs, or focusing on what to save and call a souvenir, made the present instantly the past. You had to choose one or the other was Everly's feeling. Try to shape a moment into a memory you could save and look at later, or have the moment as it was happening, but you couldn't have both.

And if someone did remember them, someone besides me, that person's account would make them less real, because my memory of them would have to be corrected by facts, which are never considerate of what makes an impression, what stays in the mind after all these years, the very real images that grip me from the erased past and won't let go.

For the face, time relays some essential message, and time is the message. It takes things away. But it's passage, it's damages, are all we have. Without it, there is nothing.

because my memory of them would have to be corrected by facts, which are never considerate of what makes an impression, what stays in the mind after all these years,

Must every action—every word and thought—recall Alena? Swimming, currents, beaches, exhibitions, artists, parties. How long until my bodily presence had half the substance her absence did?

A laugh-out-loud moment before she would send them to the underworld; or it would have been if she could still laugh. She's tried to remember how but she honestly couldn't make the sound anymore, another strange side effect.

We know it, but chose forget it. Is too much hard to bear. Yesterday, you made me realize that: we chose forget.

Letter [December to Persephone] Am I the only one to notice the soft layer of haze above snow? You say you see butterflies in the skeleton pelvis, well, what about the larger hand of the clock? Or a cauldron for boiling water? Did you, do you ever stop falling?" I repeat your name a word it almost means nothing Do you remember encyclopedias? I piled up the books so you could reach the table. Now the only way to recall you is the shape of your walking away.

But even as she struck the bonds seemed to tighten, with each fresh blow to bind more securely. Mary now clung with every fibre of her sorely distressed and outraged being; with every memory that Stephen stirred; with every passion that Stephen had fostered; with every instinct of loyalty that Stephen had aroused to do battle with Martin.

Memory, the old room was haunted by it — a man dying with love in his eyes that was deathless — a woman holding him in her arms, speaking words such as lovers will speak to each other. Memory — they're the one perfect thing about me.

Carried by light, images remain while sensation is so evanescent as to be always beyond belief.

As a child, I was abandoned in a story made of trees. Here's the small gasp of this clearing come "upon" "again

I used to babysit Brooke Callahan, Claire thought with some dismay. Could the girl really be old enough to legally operate that stethoscope?

He swallowed. He'd done that? He didn't have much memory of it, only of a quiet girl with big eyes and long dark hair. "Why would you be mortified? It was an accident." She snorted a little. "Right. I ran into your grandmother's mailbox because I wasn't paying attention to where I was going. It was all your fault for mowing the lawn without your shirt on." He stared down at her. "That's why you crashed?

Entre más recordamos, más cerca estamos de la muerte.

He vowed that the thought of her should continue ever before him to help him keep his hands as clean as a man might in this desperate trade upon which he was embarking. And so, although he might entertain no delusive hope of ever winning her for his own, of ever seeing her again, yet the memory of her was to abide in his soul as a bitter-sweet, purifying influence. The love that is never to be realized will often remain a man's guiding ideal.