Quotes About Memory

to fight against time, against forgetting, against death, to do justice to this absolute presence of the instant, to this eternity of the instant, which will have been forever

Love here on earth Love beyond the grave There are no roads My love for you can't pave.

We pretended she'd only gotten lost in the colors of fall. Piper

How sad was it that grief had a shelf life, he thought. It's only fresh and raw for so long before it begins to spoil. And soon enough, it would be replaced by a newer, brighter heartache - the old one discarded and eventually forgotten.

Memory is the same as water. It is a still lake bathed in moonlight, a vast ocean, a violent river ready to carry you away. It can calm you or it can harm you; it is both more powerful and weaker than you'd think. It is a paradox.

A body forgets, but the heart remembers.

That's the way with sentimental things: it's the memory the junk conjures that's valuable, not the junk itself.

Recollection of fear can be stronger than the original fear itself. Similarly, bliss is sometimes more vivid when recollected. How else do you explain longing? Longing for what has already passed. That's the real pain.

This is what I know: memory is the same as water. It permeates and saturates. Quenches and satiates. It can hold you up or pull you under; render you weightless or drown you. It is tangible, but elusive.

He wreaked havoc, but his path of destruction was invisible. The girls and I were the casualties of an amnesiac.

Home is where one starts from. As we grow olderThe world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicatedOf dead and living. Not the intense momentIsolated, with no before and after,But a lifetime burning in every momentAnd not the lifetime of one man onlyBut of old stones that cannot be deciphered.

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swellAnd the profit and loss.

Where is all the knowledge we lost with information?

Footfalls echo in the memoryDown the passage which we did not takeTowards the door we never openedInto the rose garden.

April is the cruellest month, breedingLilacs out of the dead land, mixingMemory and desire, stirringDull roots with spring rain.

Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened

April is the cruellest month, breedingLilacs out of the dead land, mixingMemory out of desire, stirringDull roots with spring rain.Winter kept us warm, coveringEarth in a forgetful snow, feedingA little life with dried tubers.

Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden. My words echo Thus, in your mind.

A man who forgets his past and allows the flame of the things he loves to be extinguished has no future.

We die to each other daily. What we know of other people is only our memory of the moments during which we knew them. And they have changed since then. To pretend that they and we are the same is a useful and convenient social convention which must sometimes be broken. We must also remember that at every meeting we are meeting a stranger.

April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.

Footfalls echo in the memory, down the passage we did not take, towards the door we never opened, into the rose garden.

Never make your home in a place. Make a home for yourself inside your own head. You'll find what you need to furnish it — memory, friends you can trust, love of learning, and other such things. That way it will go with you wherever you journey.

Never make your home in a place. Make a home for yourself inside your own head. You'll find what you need to furnish it- memory, friends you can trust, love of learning, and other such things. That way it will go with you wherever you journey.