Quotes About Memory

The memory of the story the way they'd told it in the village square so many times, about a girl who made herself a queen with someone else's gold, and never paid her debts.

Recordaba lo que no debía, y había olvidado demasiado. Recordaba cómo matar y cómo odiar, y se le había olvidado cómo crecer.

Not a hundred feet away the river roared over a cliff's-edge, and we weren't really leaves, even if I'd been careful to forget that.

Maybe the hardest thing about moving over seas was being in a place where no one but your own family had any memory of you. It was like putting yourself back together in little pieces.

For you who came so far; for you who held out, wearing a black scarf to signify grief; for you who believe true love can find you amidst this atlas of tears linking one town to its own memory of mortar, when it was still a dream to be built and people moved there, believing, and someone with sky and birds in his heart said this would be a good place for a park.

I knew what slant of light would make you turn over. It was then I felt the highways slide out of my hands. I remembered the old men in the west side cafe, dealing dominoes like magical charms.

Only in words on a page can it still be yesterday.

People do not die./ They die/ And then they stay.

as a boy stands back from his earlier self mocking it and the light of fireflies blinking against an old fence has become as sad as it is lovely because so many hands are gone by now it is not that we wanted the light to be caught      but reached for that was it

I don't know if my father can hear me. But it is important to pretend he can./ My sanity rests in that. The man he was can hear the daughter I am.

Memory is the 'filling cabinet' of the brain wherein is stored all thought impulses, all conscious experiences, and all sensations which reach the brain through the five physical senses.

When you offer a negative thought of action, you open the negative memory-bank and you may lose all your power to persuade.

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work-- I am the grass; I cover all. And pile them high at Gettysburg And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun. Shovel them under and let me work. Two years, ten years, and the passengers ask the conductor: What place is this? Where are we now? I am the grass. Let me work.

When the rose's flash to the sunset Reels to the wrack and the twist, And the rose is a red bygone, When the face I love is going And the gate to the end shall clang, And it's no use to beckon or say, "So long"— Maybe I'll tell you then— some other time.

Here is dust remembers it was a rose one time and lay in a woman's hair. Here is dust remembers it was a woman one time and in her hair lay a rose. Oh things one time dust, what else now is it you dream and remember of old days? ? Carl Sandburg, "Dust," The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg . (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt; First Edition edition January 6, 2003) Originally published 1950.

Find for your pencils A way to mark your memory

The dead say nothing And the dead know much And the dead hold under their tongues A locked-up story.

If heredity is a kind of memory, methylation suffers radical amnesia in every generation.

Few things leave a deeper mark on the reader, than the first book that finds its way to his heart.

So long as we are being remembered, we remain alive.

I couldn't help thinking that if I, by pure chance, had found a whole universe in a single unknown book, buried in that endless necropolis, tens of thousands more would remain unexplored, forgotten forever. I felt myself surrounded by millions of abandoned pages, by worlds and souls without an owner sinking in an ocean of darkness, while the world that throbbed outside the library seemed to be losing its memory, day after day, unknowingly, feeling all the wiser the more it forgot.

Few things are more deceptive than memories.

Wars have no memory, and nobody has the courage to understand them until there are no voices left to tell what happened

A veces dudo de mi memoria y me pregunto si únicamente seré capaz de recordar lo que nunca sucedió