Quotes About Forgetting

I forget a book as soon as I finish writing it, which is not always a good thing.

All will be forgotten, everything you perceived, thought, dreamed, hoped, remembered . . . all the past all the crawling fucking coughing chestpounding nose-picking and deathward attempts to make real some desperate desire, like standing upright for a minute in the sun. The sun that will die.

Fortunately, I have forgotten most of the things that have happened to me. Fortunately, the mind has a limited capacity for remembering. It would be horrible if I remembered the details of a hundred and eighty thousand years—the details of four thousand lifetimes that I have lived since the first great atomic war.

The existence of forgetting has never been proved: we only know that some things do not come to our mind when we want them to.

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He reacts slowly to every kind of stimulus, with that slowness which a protracted caution and a willed pride have bred in him – he tests an approaching stimulus, he is far from going out to meet it. He believes in neither 'misfortune' nor in 'guilt': he knows how to forget – he is strong enough for everything to have to turn out for the best for him. Very well, I am the opposite of a décadent: for I have just described myself.

La persistencia de su recuerdo le aumentaba la rabia. Cuando despertó pensando en él, al día siguiente del entierro, logró quitarselo de la memoria con un simple gesto de la voluntad. Pero la rabia volvía siempre, y muy pronto se dio cuenta que el deseo de olvidarlo era el más fuerte estímulo para recordarlo. Entonces se atrevió a evocar por primera vez, vencida por la nostalgia, los tiempos ilusorios de aquel amor irreal

When I'm writing, my neural pathways get blocked. I can't read. I can barely hold a conversation without forgetting words and names. I wish I could wear the same clothes and eat the same food each day.

We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget.

Or is it your reputation that's bothering you? But look at how soon we're all forgotten. The abyss of endless time that swallows it all. The emptiness of those applauding hands. The people who praise us; how capricious they are, how arbitrary. And the tiny region it takes place. The whole earth a point in space - and most of it uninhabited.

Soon, you will have forgotten everything. Soon, everybody will have forgotten you.

Or is it your reputation that's bothering you? But look at how soon we're all forgotten. The abyss of endless time that swallows it all. The emptiness of all those applauding hands. The people who praise us- how capricious they all are, how arbitrary. And the tiny region in which it all takes place. The whole earth a point in space- and most of it uninhabited. How many people there will be to admire you, and who they are.

Soon you will have forgotten all things: soon all things will have forgotten you.

Or is it your reputation that's bothering you? But look at how soon we're all forgotten. The abyss of endless time that swallows it all. The emptiness of all those applauding hands. The people who praise us—how capricious they are, how arbitrary. And the tiny region in which it all takes place. The whole earth a point in space—and most of it uninhabited

I don't know why they are all so eager to be remembered. What good will it do them? There are some things that should be forgotten by everyone, and never spoken of again.

Such a cruel thing, memory. We can't remember what it is that we've forgotten. That we have been made to forget. That we've had to forget, in order to pretend to live here in a normal way.

The pile of stones thus marks both an act of deliberate remembrance, and an act of deliberate forgetting. They're fond of paradox in that region.

I don't know why they are all so eager to be remembered. What good will it do them? There are some things that should be forgotten by everyone, and never spoken of again.

We can't remember what it is that we've forgotten. That we have been made to forget.

The mind, he reflects, is like a house - thoughts which the owner no longer wishes to display, or those which arouse painful memories, are thrust out of sight, and consigned to attic or cellar; and in forgetting, as in the storage of broken furniture, there is surely an element of will at work.

Returning from the dead used to be something I did well I began asking why I began forgetting how

Stories are no good, not even the short ones, because by the time you get to the second page he's forgotten the beginning. Where are we without our plots?

Our present era, to my mind, is characterized by a profound forgetting of the past. "The future, the future, the future." The 21st century, all the technology obsession.

It was no longer her absence that wounded me, but my growing indifference to it. Forgetting, however calming, was also a reminder of infidelity to what I had at one time held so dear.