Quotes About Memory

Did you ever walk into a room and forget why you walked in? I think that is how dogs spend their lives.

Did you ever walk into a room and forget why you walked in I think that's how dogs spend their lives.

Each person's life is dominated by a central event, which shapes and distorts everything that comes after it and, in retrospect, everything that came before.

Such is the condition of a first-generation immigrant for whom everything is separated into now and then, into before the move and after.

I'm not the one who's so far away When I feel the snake bite enter my veins. Never did I wanna be here again, And I don't remember why I came.

and yet even then, within themselves there had been a strange nostalgia, as if they had already begun to live on the memory of their love.

Your friends and family may wonder how you could want someone so badly who has treated you poorly. What they don't understand is that your partner's leaving automatically aroused symbiotic feelings that had been stored deep in your emotional memory. You are left to cope with feelings that stem from psychobiological processes that operate independently of your conscious thought and beyond your immediate control.

Sooner or later we all discover that the important moments of life are not the advertised ones, not the birthdays, the graduations, the weddings, the great goals achieved. The real milestones are less prepossessing. They come to the door of memory unannounced, stray dogs that amble in, sniff around a bit and simply never leave. Our lives are measured by these.

But it's our curse and our blessing to remember the past and to know there's a future. —Charlie

For those who had known the couple in the time of their rapture, her absence from his funeral at the Church of the Madeleine on October 30, 1849, felt more like a haunting presence.

Obsession is an accidental haunting, by a person not aware she's a ghost.

Therapy can seem like revision of memory. It can seem like you're saving your life by destroying your story and writing a new one. It can seem like therapy won't get its goddamn grubby mitts off you.

You remember the fairy tales you were told when you were very small - 'once upon a time...' Why do you think they always began like that?" "Because they weren't true," Simon said promptly. Jane said, caught up in the unreality of the high remote place, "Because perhaps they were true once, but nobody could remember when.

But once in a great while he remembered that he had felt pain, a terrible ache in his heart, and he swore he would never let himself feel love for a human again.

For many of us, our smartphones have become extensions of our brains - we outsource essential cognitive functions, like memory, to them, which means they soak up much more information than we realize.

A huge amount of our everyday thinking - powerful, creative, and resonant stuff - is done socially: talking to other people, arguing with them, relying on them to recall information for us.

There are essentially two main reasons to hold a phone up at a show. First, to capture a memory for yourself, a reminder of the moment you're enjoying. And second, to share that moment with someone - to express your emotions socially. Both seem perfectly legitimate to me.

We can never run away from our past. The past will catch up to us because it is us. It is a part of us; it's what makes us we are. It's what delineates the borders of our societies.

I can remember a reporter asking me for a quote, and I didn't know what a quote was. I thought it was some kind of soft drink.

My earliest memory is feeling soil between my fingers when I was around three years old.

I sold door to door for a couple years. As the years recede from the event, I remember less about it, which is probably good for my mind. It was home improvement in Cerritos California, Buena Park, that area.

I have almost never written about my experience as a soldier on the battlefield, because I tried, and I found that it is beyond my capacity to describe the battlefield. The battlefield consists mostly of smells, and it is very difficult to describe smells in words - very difficult indeed.

The sole literary presence from my childhood was my grandfather, a Jewish immigrant from Latvia, who eccentrically copied poems into the backs of his books. After he died, when I was 8 years old, my grandmother gave his books away, and his poems were lost.

Novelists in particular love to rhapsodize about the glory of the solitary mind; this is natural, because their job requires them to sit in a room by themselves for years on end. But for most of the rest of us, we think and remember socially.