Quotes About Forgotten

it is only when no one remembers that you are truly lost. That is the true death.

A veces se olvida que el romanticismo nació en Alemania, y muy concretamente en el norte de Alemania, en un ambiente pietista que por lo demás desempeñó un papel nada desdeñable en el desarrollo inicial del capitalismo industrial.

I heard Nakhtmin's voice in my mind, that to be forgotten was the greatest gift that history could give.

When someone behaves poorly, it's always because they've forgotten how powerful they really are, how beautiful life is, and how much they're loved. Always.

The light that radiates from the great novels time can never dim, for human existence is perpetually being forgotten by man and thus the novelists discoveries, however old they may be, will never cease to astonish.

We cannot help but be interested in the stories of people that history pushes aside so thoughtlessly.

It will be as if we never existed if our history cannot be read.

Toate mi s-au p?rut cu neputin?? de suportat, ca ÅŸi cînd ai vrea s? Å£ii mîna pe un fier înroÅŸit. Nici nu ÅŸtia c? exiÅŸti cînd ÅŸi le-a f?cut, iar faptul c? ai pierdut momente atît de preÅ£ioase din viaÅ£a ei c? a risipit atîta emoÅ£ie pentru altcineva decît pentru tine, chiar dac? pentru nimeni, este de neînÅ£eles, de netr?it.

Hearts have quite abandoned it

There's things you've forgotten. There's things you should know.

La mer qui, avec sa clémence, demeure seule capable de nous faire voir clair dans nos propres sentiments. Sans lever les yeux sur ce qui se passe au dehors, j'écoute le chuchotement de plus en plus rapproché, haletant, de ses vagues. Entre ce passé et ma vie actuelle, j'avais la certitude que plus un lien ne subsistait, que tous les fils étaient rompus, et je n'éprouvais aucun désir de voir ressusciter ce qui avait sombré dans l'oubli.

In the middle of the cemetery is a grassy plane, strangely vacant. There are no granite tombs or crumbling concrete, just a sun-washed treeless patch of green known as "No Man's Land." Here 1,500 unidentified bodies are buried. At one time, their skin burned with yellow fever; now they lie in a cool, dark place where long ago their arms and legs, hands and feet, were intertwined for eternity.

Christ had made bishops and a Pope - but never a cardinal. Even the name held more than a hint of illusion - cardo, a hinge - as if they were the hinges on which he gates of Heaven were hung. Hinges they might be, but the hinges were useless metal, unless anchored firmly into the living fabric of the Church, whose stones were the poor, the humble, the ignorant, the sinning and the loving, the forgotten of the princes, but never the forgotten f God.

Being unwanted, unloved, uncared for, forgotten by everybody, I think that is a much greater hunger, a much greater poverty than the person who has nothing to eat.

Did you ever bury thirty-five men in a place in back of your house, thirty-five tunnel workers the doctors didn't attend, died in the tunnel camps, under rocks, everywhere, world without end.

Thousands and thousands of drowned souls in oblivion and enemies and friends. A mountain was formed, the top of which a person sits, on the mountain from the corpses of forgotten and erased people who made up the main content of life.

Childhood dreams were left alone to rot in peace.

The list of genocides committed on Earth are endless, the fact that we never learned or know about them does not mean they did not exist.

Stripped of its arrogance, its desire to make off with half of the patrimony and never be seen again, history belongs at the family table. If theology, the older brother, pretends not to need or notice him it will be a sign that he has forgotten, after all, who his father is.

Her heart was tender. She probably felt shame for a transgression others would've long forgotten.

Shall then this man go hungry, here in lands Blest by his honor, builded by his hands? Do something for him: let him never be Forgotten: let him have his daily bread: He who has fed us, let him now be fed. Let us remember his tragic lot— Remember, or else be ourselves forgot! —Edwin Markham, "The Forgotten Man" (1932) I

There is no remembrance of those who failed, those without heirs or legacies.

He was just a sixteen-year old boy who had been killed, a kid whose photo had been in the paper, a kid who would mostly be forgotten by the time the newspaper went into the garbage-yet he was the universe, all the dying, all the crying. He was everyone who had ever died young.

People without memory are putty.