Quotes About Memory

If I am a man of some reading, I am a man of no retentiveness.

Rien n'imprime si vivement quelque chose à notre souvenance que le désir de l'oublier.

At that time, a friend shall lose his friend's hammer, and the young shall not know where lieth the things possessed by their fathers that their fathers put there only just the night before ...

Death ends a life, not a relationship. All the love you created is still there. All the memories are still there. You live on- in the hearts of everyone you have touched and nurtured while you were here.

The art of reading, in short, includes all of the same skills that are involved in the art of unaided discovery: keenness of observation, readily available memory, range of imagination, and, of course, an intellect trained in analysis and reflection.

The man who knew an encyclopedia by heart would be in grave danger of incurring the title idiot savant—"learned fool.

não importa se o que aprendeu é um fato sobre o livro ou um fato sobre o mundo: você aprendeu apenas informações, caso tenha exercitado apenas sua memória.

But in order to forget them as separate acts, you have to learn them first as separate acts.

How is it that a little incident like this suddenly comes back to one, whereas something that moved one deeply at the time can simply be forgotten with the passage of the years?

Al poner demasiado empeño en olvidar, sólo recuerdo; ¿por qué, cuando uno trata de olvidar, no olvida?

Her name and memory, after her death, flitted from mouth to mouth like swallows in summer, and in the winter they were gone.

From today onward, my memory is improving in every way. I will always remember whatever I need to know at every moment of time and point of space. The impressions I receive will be clear and definite. I will retain them automatically and easily. Whatever I want to recall will immediately present itself in the correct form in my mind. I am improving rapidly every day. Very soon my memory will be better than it has ever been before.

He wondered what his sorrow was and could not remember.

He closed his eyes and tried to remember the taste of snow apples. When he was a child, there was a gnarled tree of them behind his father's blacksmith shop. His mother would always pick them but there were never enough for more than a single tart. Spicy and yet sweet, like McIntosh, but the flesh was so impossibly white, pristine, and the juice was so abundant, that it was like no other apple he had ever tasted.

And then will come the day when the last person who remembers me will die.

How easy it is to create ghosts, he thinks as he begins to die a minute later, feeling his mind closing chamber by chamber, the memory of Naheed contained in each one. And despite it all it means much to have been loved. Just before the world vanishes, a hope surfaces in him that this wasn't necessarily everything, that he will return somehow. His arm rises, remembering when it used to be a wing.

On the bottom shelf M. kept the books from his childhood days: Pushkin, Lermontov, Gogol, the Iliad - they are described in The Noise of Time and happened to have been saved by M.'s father. Most of them later perished in Kalinin when I was fleeing from the Germans. The way we have scurried to and fro in the twentieth century, trapped between Hitler and Stalin!

A complying memory has obliterated many of them and edited my childhood down to a brief cinematic blur.

My first memory of school is of taking an apple to the teacher. This puzzles me. We had no apples on Isabella. It must have been an orange; yet my memory insists on the apple.

I will love you even when I am dust on the wind.

Sometimes I remember that I can't always protect those I love. Under his fingers, her hair was soft and silky. She didn't try to tell him that he wasn't God, that he couldn't protect everyone. He knew that. But knowing and believing were two different things. What she did say succeeded in stopping his heart. I wish you'd love me. Why? Because then maybe you could protect me, too. Haunting sorrow whispered through her tone.

I used to think that I could never lose anyone if I photographed them enough. In fact, my pictures show me how much I've lost.

It's easy to make your life into stories. But it's harder to sustain real memories…The difference between a story and a real memory, the real experience has a smell and is dirty and is not wrapped up in simple endings. The real memories are what effects me now. Things can appear that you don't want to see, where you're not safe, and even if you don't actually unleash the memories, the effect is there. It's in your body.

He refused to think about her, or when he did, he quickly thought of something else to drive her image from his mind. After a while he forgot what she looked like, except in dreams.