Quotes About Memory

First you forget names, then you forget faces. Next you forget to pull your zipper up and finally, you forget to pull it down.

Actually, it only takes one drink to get me loaded. Trouble is, I can't remember if it's the thirteenth or fourteenth.

It takes only one drink to get me drunk. The trouble is, I can't remember if it's the thirteenth or the fourteenth.

If it wasn't for flash backs, I wouldn't remember anything at all.

Memory is not so brilliant as hope, but it is more beautiful, and a thousand times as true.

She had no remembrance of my name, or the Seraskiers'—I asked, with a beating heart. We had left no trace. Twelve short years had effaced all memory of us!

Bits that are embodied as structure (varying in space, invariant across time) we perceive as memory, and bits that are embodied as sequence (varying in time, invariant across space) we perceive as code. Gates are the intersections where bits span both worlds at the moments of transition from one instant to the next.

The sons of Judah have to choose that God may again choose them. The divine principle of our race is action, choice, resolved memory.

O may I join the choir invisibleOf those immortal dead who live againIn minds made better by their presence.

Oh, may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again.

There's no disappointment in memory, and one's exaggerations are always on the good side.

This is not to say a writer has only one voice or is limited to the scope of her backyard. But in some sense her work must begin there, at the rootwad. And wherever she travels she must take that place with her, must feel in the dark of memory for its shape.

Mr. Evans? I called. A moment of your time? He looked at me as if he'd never seen me before. Do I know you? My name is Dina. I own the bed-and-breakfast. He glanced past me at the old house sitting at the mouth of the subdivision. That monstrosity? Aren't you sweet? Yes.

How did it feel, Herald?" The memory of power ripping from her in a torrent surfaced in her mind, followed by a spike of pain as she said the power word after her incantation had paved the way. She heard the sound of Adams' bones breaking and patted Peanut's nose. "How did it feel?" The Herald of Atlanta smiled. "It felt good.

They say the dead have no memories and know no pain." George's voice was barely above a whisper, but somehow it was louder than the pleas of the corpses. "It's not that way for me.

People always long for the good old days," Christopher said, his light eyes thoughtful. "We look at the past with rose-colored glasses.

Christopher was right. We looked at the past with rose-colored glasses.

A vivid image of a man with a pencil through his left eye orbit flashed before me, complete with bloody smudges of my fingerprints on the yellow shaft of the pencil. Thank you, dear memory, for once again attempting to sabotage my conversation.

She remembered his voice, so calm it chilled her. "Lady Maud, if I die, say the Liturgy of the Fallen for me." Saying the Liturgy of the Fallen fell to the one you treasured most. Your spouse. Your lover. Your one who was everything. She couldn't dishonor that confession and she answered him in the language of vampires. "Go with the Goddess, my Lord. You won't be forgotten.

Johns Hopkins, which was a trip I was doing my best to forget. We almost died, and while we were away, a local family we knew was murdered. Julie and Derek had handled it, but thinking about it still turned my stomach. The

An enemy soldier never seemed to be alone--one human being like any other--but followed, crushed from all directions by innumerable ghosts, the missing and the dead. Speaking to him wasn't like speaking to a solitary man but to an invisible multitude; nothing that was said was either spoken or heard with simplicity: there was always that strange sensation of being no more than lips that spoke for so many others, others who had been silenced.

Men who loved you when you were twenty, and who continue to see you the way you looked then are impossible to replace.

Un soldato nemico non era mai solo - un essere umano di fronte a un altro - ma portava con sé una folla innumerevole di fantasmi, i fantasmi degli assenti e dei morti. Non ci si rivolgeva a un uomo ma a una moltitudine invisibile; così nessuna delle parole pronunciate era detta semplicemente e come tale ascoltata; si aveva sempre la strana sensazione che a parlare fosse soltanto una bocca, che parlava per tante altre, mute.

is the misquotation of Keats, when Némirovsky writes: "This thing of Beauty is a guilt for ever." I have deliberately retained this mistake in the text as a poignant reminder that Némirovsky was writing Suite Française in the depths of the French countryside, with a sense of urgent foreboding and nothing but her memory as a source.