Quotes About Memory

There will be a time when you remember this place and recognize it as a mirror for the true seat of power.

If this was indeed the ancient land of Eden, then not even a memory of its former splendour remained.

I am known by many names, some of them forgotten now.

Fineas Rigg approached him. Ays had a horrible feeling of recognition, which had nothing to do with appearances, or any kindling of memory. There was something else through which he and Rigg were akin, and Ays far from liked the thought of that.

The affair did not last, and what you have heard is no doubt the poison that lingers in a broken heart.

I have a purpose, thought Ays. I am a purpose. And the winds sang their mournful tunes through the sand-scoured pipes and sails, conjuring a salt-sweat memory that surely must be false. A woman's song; a melody. The feel of sand and dry air. A sense of tombs, of ancient dust.

There was so much unsaid about our history; so much pain contained there.

Was there pleasure to be found in the jaws of the fox? That would make a good first line, she thought, and repeated it over and over in her head so as not to forget it.

It is the breath of Caradore, its fragrance. He needs to carry that with him.

A shimmering blue sphere hung above the sea, illuminating the angry cresting waves. Daniel peered at it, feeling that he'd evoked it, although the memory of doing so had vanished. It would be Ishtahar his goddess, bringing more puzzles to him, and obscure answers to his questions. He saw her again as a child, hovering with dripping feet above the water, encased in her own bubble of light.

At one time, a sacred flame burned in this place, and its influence still prevails. You have walked through its memory and it has changed you.

You may return to Odessa to spread the news that Fedot the cousin of fond memory was a walking blind erection that managed to be unable to locate me for the past four years. He was, however, more successful in locating a colorful array of other willing, waiting receptacles.

Who?" "I don't remember fucking names. But they called. My assistant answered. Always these buy-me-a-vowel names.

We forgot what happened yesterday. We know all about Paris Hilton. We know about that. But what do we know about why we are there in Iraq?

The war was fun for America. I'm not talking about the poor souls who lost sons and daughters. But for the rest of us, the war was a hell of a good time. Farmers in South Dakota that I administered relief to and gave 'em bully beef and four dollars a week to feed their families, when I came home were worth a quarter-million dollars, right? It's forgotten now.

This I remember. Some people put this out of their minds and forget it. I don't. I don't want to forget it. I don't want it to take the best of me, but I want to be there because this is what happened. This is the truth, you know. History.

It's disconcerting to realize how little you have to say to someone who once occupied such a prominent place in your bed.

Though we are made of memories, we live only in the here and now.

There was an end, and it colors everything, even the beginning.

Don't assume that what happens in our future invalidates what happened in our past.

But it could also be willful and unrelenting, pushing memories to the forefront of her brain, like rude people cutting in line. And not just rude, but people who were noisy and smelly and daring you to challenge them.

But pain may be a gift to us. Remember, after all, that pain is one of the ways we register in memory the things that vanish, that are taken away. We fix them in our minds forever by yearning, by pain, by crying out. Pain, the pain that seems unbearable at the time, is memory's first imprinting step, the cornerstone of the temple we erect inside us in memory of the dead. Pain is part of memory, and memory is a God-given gift.

Loss brings pain. Yes. But pain triggers memory. And memory is a kind of new birth, within each of us. And it is that new birth after long pain, that resurrection - in memory - that, to our surprise, perhaps, comforts us.

Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can't remember who we are or why we're here.