Quotes About Memory

Ölü insanlar?n fotoÄŸraflar? neden hep böyle soluk oluyor, diye merak etti Josephine. Bir insan ölür ölmez fotoÄŸraf? da ölüyordu.

Little things are starting to come back to him, memories involving that summer that he can recall with fondness—fondness, and wonder—the way you can look back at a time in your life and say with certainty, "Here, I was most alive.

Memory is a slippery thing. When something terrible happens to you, like the loss of someone you love...memory can turn into a soft blanket that hides you from the loss.

Trees are the arbiters of time, gathering up the hours and days and years, keeping them in their circular rings. They know that forgetting is not so easy. The blackjacks, the water oaks, the sumacs, they all had time to spare, and more.

I would have preferred raised stones as markers," she said simply, and he understood that she was confiding a deeply private thing to him. "I imagined something upright, tall, with chiseled angels rising from it. I wanted a curved elaborate script to spell their names, a poem or a prayer carved into marble. I wanted a building built. A mausoleum.: She sighed. "I wanted something as magnificent as grief.

If I remember correctly, I called you an asshole doctor." "That's no more than the truth... except I'm not a proctologist.

we are theological amnesiacs;

History is not what happened but what is written down

History is not what happened. History is what was written down.

This struck memory chords in me; seeking a life of the mind, I had more or less consciously rejected the 'girl stuff' that I associated with my mother in her kitchen. Now I realize that this rejection of the sanctity of daily tasks was self-defeating in the long run. It served to alienate me not only from the wisdom of my mother and grandmothers, but from the pleasure of cooking, serving and eating some very good food.

Exile, like memory, may be a place of hope and delusion. But there are rules of light there and principles of darkness. . . . The expatriate is in search of a country, the exile in search of a self. —Eavan Boland, OBJECT LESSONS

He didn't know what it was like to live between memory and regret with nothing to numb it.

Scent memory is incredibly personal; a very private experience.

He didn't know what it was like to live between memory and regret

You can always come back to a place, even if it isn't there anymore.

The crickets were rubbing their hind legs together, unrolling that endless band of sound that when combined with the sound of the sycamore trees losing their heads in the heat-thickened breeze could cause even a girl as unsentimental as Mary to feel like she'd just left something behind on the porch stoop she couldn't bear to live without.

Scars are stories, history written on the body

You must not think of time as a quantity, a period, a measure. Look at the sky," Gwynneth said. "The moon has now slipped away to another night, into another world. It was not the time it was here that you remember, Faolan, but rather the luminescence of the air, the blue shadows cast by the trees in its light. It was not the length of the time but the quality of the moon's light that you felt and remember." Gwynneth paused. "It is the value, the quality that lives on.

Sure, I saw enlisted men everyday, but once they donned their uniforms and committed their lives, they became a mirage. The minute you approached them, you knew they would disappear bit by bit until the only thing left was a memory.

Something odd was going on here. They were led through the dim hallway into a back bedroom, where they found a sight Casey would never forget.

I Haven't Lost My Mind. It's Backed Up On In The Cloud Someplace.

97 days earlier

Someone had collected shards of bone and brain pudding and sealed them in a Ziploc bag. The plastic sack lay in the man's lap, as though he'd been put in charge of watching over his own brain.

The mental Images were liquifying So I could no longer separate what I was recalling from the past from what I'd seen in detailed photos that afternoon. Like life. I've long suspected that many of my memories from childhood Are actually drawn from old pictures, That they are composed of snapshots, A mosaic of celluloids Images reworked into a remembered reality. Kodak cast backwards. Maybe it's better to recall The pass that way. We rarely take pictures of sad occasions.