Quotes About Memory

You can't really say what is beautiful about a place, but the image of the place will remain vividly with you.

Between two throw-ins in a soccer game, right behind my back, three thousand people had been put to death.

To miasto jest stolic? narodu, które wyparowuje w nico??. O tym te? trzeba powiedzie?. Ale komu? Czy tym, których ju? nie ma albo którzy odchodz? w niepami??? A mo?e tym, co po?eraj? pojedynczych ludzi i ca?e narody?

The first sign of senility is loss of memory. I forget the other two.

Don't lend money to friends -- it causes amnesia.

Words, I think, are such unpredictable creatures. No gun, no sword, no army or king will ever be more powerful than a sentence. Swords may cut and kill, but words will stab and stay, burying themselves in our bones to become corpses we carry into the future, all the time digging and failing to rip their skeletons from our flesh.

You're always with me. But that must also be some version of you that i made up inside my head

All my life, I've been terrible at remembering people's names. I once introduced a friend of mine as Martini. Her name was actually Olive.

Det var en historie som knyttet meg til henne med både hjerte og sjel, og jeg kommer aldri til å glemme den. Den er faktisk så virkelig for meg at jeg kan se for meg alle deltakerne og rollene de spilte, som om de står på en scene.

Tattoos are a road map of the bearer's personal journey.

A drunkard's words are gone when the next day dawns.

I've only got a handful of memories, and I don't want them wearing away, textures rubbing smooth, colors fading from overexposure. When I take them out, once in a blue moon, I need them bright enough to catch my breath and sharp enough to cut.

It stunned me. I had never said it before. I knew that I would never say it again, not really; that you only get one shot at in a lifetime. I got mine out of nowhere on a misty autumn evening, under a street lamp shining yellow streaks on the wet pavement, with Rosie's strong pliable fingers woven through mine.

When you look at someone you knew when you were young, you always see the person you first met,

They are forever, a brief and mortal forever, a forever that will grow into their bones and be held inside them after it ends, intact, indestructible.

Losing a chunk of your memory is a tricky thing, a deep-sea quake triggering shifts and upheavals too far distant from the epicenter to be easily predictable.

a tiny gemstone, a tiny spark of color slipping between your fingers and through the cracks and gone. A heart the size of a fleck of glitter and vibrating like a hummingbird, seeded with a billion things that would never happen now.

Somewhere at the back of my head I heard a click, tiny and irrevocable. Memory magnifies it to a wrenching, echoing crack, but the truth is that it was the very smallness that made it so terrible.

I watched her on the stand in that unfamiliar suit and thought of the soft hairs at the back of her neck, warm and smelling of the sun, and it seemed an impossible thing to me, it seemed the vastest and saddest miracle of my life: I touched her hair, once.

My memories of them had rubbed thin with overuse, worn to frail color transparencies flickering on the walls of my mind: Jamie scrambling intent and surefooted up to a high branch, Peter's laugh arcing out of the trompe-l'oeil dazzle of green ahead. Through some slow sea change they had become children out of a haunting storybook, bright myths from a lost civilization; it was hard to believe they had once been real and my friends.

I had started trying—it for the first time, really—it to remember what had happened in that wood. I prodded tentatively around the edges of it, barely acknowledging even to myself what I was doing, like a kid picking at a scab but afraid to look.

Most people have no reason to know how memory can turn rogue and feral, becoming a force of its own and one to be reckoned with. Losing a chunk of your memory is a tricky thing, a deep-sea quake triggering shifts and upheavals too far distant from the epicenter to be easily predictable.

I pictured every inch of what she would look like now: the crow's-feet from smiles I hadn't seen, the softness of her belly from kids who weren't mine, all her life that I had missed written on her body in Braille for my hands to read.

For some reason the past—any of our pasts—was solidly off-limits. They were like the creepy rabbits in Watership Down who won't answer any questions beginning with "Where.