Quotes About Memory

The past is safe because it is indelible.

John?" she said. As it was dark, he whistled a What? "You are such a male of worth, you know that. You really are." She reached up and cupped his face. It happened so fast, he couldn't believe it. Later, he would play and replay everything over and over again, stretching out the moment endlessly, reliving it and taking a strange kind of nourishment from the memory, again and again.

You want to know what death is! I'll tell you what it is—death is the living forgetting you! What you smell like and look like, what your voice sounds like, how you laugh! Even if there is an afterlife, my death is going to be you going on without me until you can't remember what color my eyes are or how long my hair is—

But of course, time didn't work like that. And memory was but a television show of your own life, a movie screen you could play witness to, but not interact with, change the course of, redirect.

The dead were immortal in the souls of those they left behind, and the payment for that permanence was pain.

To say that memory was a lane you could walk along, a path to follow, a linear progression you embarked on from start to finish, was way off base. After this past year, she had decided it was more like a piano keyboard, and the musical notes her mind played in the form of moving-picture images were a pick-and-choose determined more by the sheet music of her mourning than the well-founded logic of her decision to leave Caldwell.

I'm a vampire. I'm a warrior. I'm a dangerous beast. At the end of this evening, you aren't going to remember you ever met me. And the idea of not even being a memory of yours makes me feel like I've been stabbed in the chest.

Vuoi sapere cos'è la morte? Te lo dico io cos'è.... la morte è la vita che si dimentica di te! Come profumi e che aspetto hai, che suono ha la tua voce, come ridi! Anche se c'è una vita dopo la morte, la mia morte sarà tu che vai avanti Senza di me fino a che non ti ricorderai più di che colore sono i miei occhi o quanto lunghi sono i miei capelli....

Più tardi, molto più tardi, lui si sarebbe ricordato di quel momento tra loro…sembrava dover durare per sempre, allungarsi verso l'infinito. Tutti i dettagli si impressero nella sua memoria, dalla scintilla nei suoi occhi alla lucentezza dei capelli, dal modo in cui sorrideva al rossore sulle guance. I ricordi diventano speciali quando sono tutto quello che ti rimarrà dell'amata.

Vuoi sapere cos'è la morte? Te lo dico io cos'è.... la morte è la vita che si dimentica di te! Come profumi e che aspetto hai, che suono ha la tua voce, come ridi! Anche se c'è una vita dopo la morte, la mia morte sarà tu che vai avanti Senza di me fino a che non ti ricorderai più di che colore sono i miei occhi o quanto lunghi sono i miei capelli.... Le Ombre by J.R.Ward

No matter how long gone, you'll always be here. A heartbeat close. A whisper's near.

Life kept you busy fighting off troubles, and you looked up, and the best parts of your life were gone.

It seems to me that it's usually impossible to get hold of another time. You look at a pair of high-button shoes, the leather dry and cracked, buttons missing, the cloth uppers nearly drained of color by the years, and it just isn't possible to get into the mind of some long-gone woman who once saw them new. How could they ever have been new and shining, something a woman might actually covet?

If I dreamed, no traces remained in my memory; I simply left the world and life for complete exhausted oblivion.

Duende I can't remember her name. It's not as though I've been in bed with that many women. The truth is I can't even remember her face. I kind of know how strong her thighs were, and her beauty. But what I won't forget is the way she tore open the barbecued chicken with her hands, and wiped the grease on her breasts.

One morning I woke up and was plunged into psychological shock. I had forgotten I was free.

The wasteland that is your memory now comes under the absolute dictatorship of idols too terrible to mention.

I hope it is true that a man can die and yet not only live in others but give them life, and not only life, but that great consciousness of life.

The one thing that we yearn for in our living days, that makes us sigh and groan and undergo sweet nauseas of all kinds, is the remembrance of some lost bliss that was probably experienced in the womb and can only be reproduced (though we hate to admit it) in death. But who wants to die?

A scene should be selected by the writer for haunted-ness-of-mind interest. If you're not haunted by something, as by a dream, a vision, or a memory, which are involuntary, you're not interested or even involved.

Write in recollection and amazement for yourself.

the loneliness…the "inexpressibly delicious sensation of this memory - for as memories are older they're like wine rarer, till if you find a real old memory, one of infancy, not an established often tasted one but a brand new one, it would taste better than the Napoleon brandy Stendhal himself must have stared at…

I realized that I had died and been reborn numberless times but just didn't remember especially because the transitions from life to death and back to life are so ghostly easy, a magical action for naught, like falling asleep and waking up again a million times, the utter casualness and deep ignorance of it.

So even that marvelous, long remembrances of life all the time in the world to just sit there or lie there or walk about slowly remembering all the details of life which now because a million lightyears away have taken on the aspect (as they must've for Proust in his sealed room) of pleasant movies brought up at will and projected for further study ? And pleasure ? As I imagine God to be doing this very minute, watching his own movie, which is us.