Quotes About Memory

It wis like auld times, but in a sense that only served tae remind us ay how much things hud changed.

Es rarísimo que por un momento estemos aquí y al siguiente hayamos desaparecido. En un par de generaciones, a nadie le importará una mierda. No seremos más que unos gilipollas con ropas graciosas en fotografías descoloridas que un triste descendiente con demasiado tiempo libre saca del aparador para mirar de vez en cuando.

I prefer Tender Is the Night, though', and as I spoke, I got a raw jolt in my chest that could only br described as tender, as an image of Fiona, on the Bosphorus ferry, under a lambent soak of light, sweeping her hair out of her face, flickered in my brain. Even wasted she looked so poised and dignified. I loved her I loved her I loved her I wanted to melt into her bones. Her absence now felt like I'd been eaten from the inside.

She could find no emotional connection though, between the her of now and the her of then

Immortality means being loved by many anonymous people.

Fifty years, I hackneyed, is a long time. Not when you're looking back at them, she said. You wonder how they vanished so quickly.

What I will be remembered for are the Foundation Trilogy and the Three Laws of Robotics. What I want to be remembered for is no one book, or no dozen books. Any single thing I have written can be paralleled or even surpassed by something someone else has done. However, my total corpus for quantity, quality and variety can be duplicated by no one else. That is what I want to be remembered for.

Old men tend to forget what thought was like in their youth; they forget the quickness of the mental jump, the daring of the youthful intuition, the agility of the fresh insight. They become accustomed to the more plodding varieties of reason, and because this is more than made up by the accumulation of experience, old men think themselves wiser than the young.

The soft bonds of love are indifferent to life and death. They hold through time so that yesterday's love is part of today's and the confidence in tomorrow's love is also part of today's. And when one dies, the memory lives in the other, and is warm and breathing. And when both die — I almost believe, rationalist though I am — that somewhere it remains, indestructible and eternal, enriching all of the universe by the mere fact that once it existed.

Goodbye, Hari, my love. Remember always--all you did for me." -I did nothing for you." -You loved me and your love made me--human.

There is nothing so eternally adhesive as the memory of power.

No individual death among human beings is important. Someone who dies leaves his work behind and that does not entirely die. It never entirely dies as long as humanity exists.

The whole world might know you and acclaim you, but someone in the past, forever unreachable, forever unknowing, spoils it all.

In memory yet green, in joy still felt, The scenes of life rise sharply into view. We triumph; Life's disasters are undealt, And while all else is old, the world is new.

John Dalton's records, carefully preserved for a century, were destroyed during the World War II bombing of Manchester. It is not only the living who are killed in war.

He also said, I suppose there are people who are so `lucky' that they are not touched by phantoms and are not troubled by fleeting memory and know not nostalgia and care not for the ache of the past and are spared the feather-hit of the sweet, sweet pain of the lost, and I am sorry for them-for to weep over what is gone is to have had something prove worth the weeping.

It might seem to you, Peter, that a truck driver, one step above an ape in your view, can't remember. But truck drivers can have brains, too.

Yet he had expended much of an inquisitive nature upon random reading. By the sheer force of indiscriminate voracity, he had gleaned a smattering of practically everything, and by means of a trick memory had managed to keep it all straight.

Societies create their own history and tend to wipe out lowly beginnings, either by forgetting them or inventing totally fictitious heroic rescues.

The only trouble is," said the Sister happily, "that every once in a while you have a very unusual one and you never forget it, but you never have it again either. I had one when I was nine—" Her expression suddenly lost its excitement and she said, "It's a good thing. It teaches you the evanescence of things of the world.

A couple of weeks ago I received a phone call form a young woman who inquired as to how she might obtain a copy of In Memory Yet Green (the first volume of my autobiography)... There seemed no point in suggesting that she haunt the second bookstores because no one but an idiot ever abandons one of my books after it has come in his possession, and there are few idiots who know enough to buy one of my books in the first place.

That old?" The old man sighed. "History has been crowded since.

There was even a scrap of poetry he treasured which stated that a moving finger having once written could never be lured back to unwrite.

Didn't you ever have a robot go wrong on you? It's your anniversary, you know." And so help me she blushed. She said, "Robots have gone wrong on me. Heavens, how long it's been since I thought of it. Why, it was almost forty years ago. Certainly! 2021! And I was only thirty-eight. Oh, my—I'd rather not talk about it.