Quotes About Memory

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.

But it was Paradise in one way," said Steiner at last. "How?" "All the time we were there the woman did not speak.

Tenía unas páginas de poesía, que guardaba con indecible cariño, donde se podía leer que lo que una mano había hecho nunca podía deshacerlo.

Recuerda siempre... todo lo que hiciste por mí. -No hice nada por ti. - Me amaste y tu amor me hizo... humana.

When a day passes, it is no longer there. What remains of it? Nothing more than a story. If stories weren't told or books weren't written, man would live like the beasts, only for the day. The whole world, all human life, is one long story.

If you hear I'm dead, don't come to my funeral.

The dead don't go anywhere. They're all here. Each man is a cemetery. An actual cemetery, in which lie all our grandmothers and grandfathers, the father and mother, the wife, the child. Everyone is here all the time.

His eyes reflected a softness I had already forgotten in America.

How is it possible, after all, that someone should simply vanish? How can someone who lived, loved, and wrangled with God and with himself just disappear? I don't know how and in what sense but they're here. Since time is an illusion, why shouldn't everything remain?

After a while Zeinvel said, "I haven't forgotten her. If there is a Gehenna, I want to lie next to her on one bed of nails.

Well, dreams are all lost, Herman said to himself. Each day begins with amnesia.

memory is fragile and the space of a single life is brief, passing so quickly that we never get a chance to see the relationship between events; we cannot gauge the consequences of our acts, and we believe in the fiction of past, present, and future, but it may also be true that everything happens simultaneously.

My name is Eva, which means 'life,' according to a book of names my mother consulted. I was born in the back room of a shadowy house, and grew up amidst ancient furniture, books in Latin, and human mummies, but none of those things made me melancholy, because I came into the world with a breath of the jungle in my memory.

A veces, para exorcizar los demonios de un recuerdo es necesario contarlo como un cuento

La memoria imprime en blanco y negro, los grises se pierden por el camino.

Memoria selectiva para recordar lo bueno, prudencia lógica para no arruinar el presente, y optimismo desafiante para encarar el futuro.

Nostalgia is my vice. Nostalgia is a melancholy, and slightly saccharine, sentiment, like tenderness

As I travel through life, I gather experiences that lie imprinted on the deepest strata of memory, and there they ferment, are transformed, and sometimes rise to the surface and sprout like strange plants from other worlds. What is the fertile humus of the subconscious composed of? Why are certain images converted into recurrent themes in nightmares or writing?

Lo que se olvida es como si nunca hubiera sucedido

If, for example, I saw my grandparents or my daughter for an instant, would I recognize them? Probably not, because in looking so hard for a way to keep them alive, remembering them in the most minimal details, I have been changing them, adorning them with qualities they may not have had. I have given them a destiny much more complex than the ones they lived.

Las fotografías engañan al tiempo, suspendiéndolo en un trozo de cartón donde el alma queda bocabajo, decía

El ardor de ese beso no los abandonó en muchos días y llenó de fantasmas delicados sus noches, dejando su recuerdo en la piel, como una quemadura. La alegría de ese encuentro los transportaba levitando por la calle, los impulsaba a reír sin causa aparente, los despertaba sobresaltados en la mitad de un sueño. Se tocaban los labios con las puntas de los dedos y evocaban exactamente la forma de la boca del otro.

Que hay al otro lado de la vida?¿Es solo noche silenciosa y soledad? ¿Que queda cuando no hay deseos, recuerdos ni esperanzas? ¿Que hay en la muerte? Si pudiera permanecer inmovil, sin hablar ni pensar, sin suplicar, sin llorar, recordar o esperar, si pudiera sumergirme en el silencio mas completo, tal vez entonces pudiera oirte, hija.

Me resulta complicado escribir sobre mi vida, porque no sè cuánto recuerdo y cuánto es producto de mi imaginación;la estricta verdad puede ser tediosa y por eso, sin darme ni cuenta, la cambio o la exagero, pero me he propuesto corregir ese defecto y mentir lo menos posible en el futuro.