Quotes About Memory

I loved you so much once. I did. More than anything in the whole wide world. Imagine that. What a laugh that is now. Can you believe it? We were so intimate once upon a time I can't believe it now. The memory of being that intimate with somebody. We were so intimate I could puke. I can't imagine ever being that intimate with somebody else. I haven't been.

I loved you so much once. I did. More than anything in the whole wide world. Imagine that. What a laugh that is now. Can you believe it? We were so intimate once upon a time I can't believe it now. The memory of being that intimate with somebody. We were so intimate I could puke. I can't imagine ever being that intimate with somebody else. I haven't been.

All this, all of this love we're talking about, it would just be a memory. Maybe not even a memory. Am I wrong? Am I way off base? Because I want you to set me straight if you think I'm wrong. I want to know. I mean, I don't know anything, and I'm the first one to admit it.

But he stays by the window, remembering that life. They had laughed. They had leaned on each other and laughed until the tears had come, while everything else—the cold and where he'd go in it—was outside, for a while anyway.

What you remember, it's real. It doesn't matter how accurate your memory of something is, it is real to you. What you perceive as reality is reality.

You're smiling. But you must know yourself, since you are a literary person, that the work of fiction is always a form of recovery of the past, even if that past has to be falsified to seem real. The act of recalling the past in what we write doesn't mean knowing the way it really was, but rather becoming the master of memories as they burn in the perilous instant of creation.

On Wednesday, September 11, 2002 (9-11-02), the New York State Lottery winning number was 911.

I did not know then how much was ended. When I look back now from this high hill of my old age, I can still see the butchered women and children lying heaped and scattered all along the crooked gulch as plain as when I saw them with eves still young. And I can see that something else died there in the bloody mud, and was buried in the blizzard. A people's dream died there. It was a beautiful dream.

What people don't understand they just push away to the far corners of their minds and eventually it fades away and gets forgotten. 'Cause it's safer that way.

We have come from all the countries of the world and are going to Saintes-Maries de la Mer. Nomads of the enigma, we gather there each year after having carried our mystery through ordinary countryside and fluid towns. Since we become transformed by our wanderings we are despised by those who stand still and retain a memory of giant serpents and metallic green.

I don't know how long I stayed in that particular place my poor memory is not a chronometer nor a movie camera nor a phonograph nor any other sort of finely tuned machine. It's more like nature with holes empty spaces hidden nooks and crannies with rivers that trickle away so that you can never dip your foot in the same water twice and with patches of light and darkness.

Memory is a giggling sprite and will not be tamed. She takes flight the moment the present becomes the past.

You can forget a lot of things, but you cannot forget a womans name and claim to love her.

A person whom one has loved seems altogether too significant a thing to simply vanish altogether from the world. A person whom one loves is a world, just as one knows oneself to be a world.

Most writers, by the time they're 60, must have revisited their childhood a dozen times.

I remember being totally enamored with Sid Caesar.

When I was young, I believe I met Nicolas Cage. I think I was probably eight, and I remember seeing him at somebody's house - it was an event, and he happened to be there.

I'll forget what day it is sometimes. I have to look in my calendar every once in a while.

When I hear or see his name, I see the Glen I've always known. There will never, ever be another Glen Campbell.

A man without a memory is only capable of doing evil, nothing else but evil.

I would love to be able to have a brain that just captures everything.

Why did I elope with my husband after knowing him for only four months? I wish I could show people the picture of the two of us that night and have them feel what I felt. But it's just a picture. It can only capture how things looked, not how they felt.

You have these magical moments in these live events that are never captured on film and that only live on in your memory. Those are always my favorite.

Back in the 1980s, you could learn how to add memory cards to your PC in a Radio Shack.