Quotes About Forgotten

He was married once, but it was so long ago that he forgot about it. Before the war, his wife ran away with an actor, having fallen for his velvet jacket and lace cuffs.

Suonavamo perché l'Oceano è grande, e fa paura, suonavamo perché la gente non sentisse passare il tempo, e si dimenticasse dov'era, e chi era. Suonavamo per farli ballare, perché se balli non puoi morire, e ti senti Dio. E suonavamo il ragtime, perché è la musica su cui Dio balla, quando nessuno lo vede. Su cui Dio ballava, se solo era negro.

Le ragioni sono dimenticati.

Nous sommes un cimetière à la dérive.

Twenty miles on, we have spotted a roadside sign: 'CHAINSAW CARVED MUSHROOMS'. Troubles promptly forgotten, Stuart falls to gawping at the road ahead. What could it all be about? 'As one victim to another,' his body language seems to marvel, 'what's a mushroom done to deserve that kind of abuse?' Not even in the worst days of street-fighting did he ever experience ill-treatment on this scale.

Auden returns to one of his most important themes—that of repairing the tragic division in our lives, of making us whole again: While, as they lie in the grass of our neglect, So many long-forgotten objects Revealed by his undisclosed shining Are returned to us and made precious again; Games we thought we must drop as we grew up, Little noises we dared not laugh at, Faces we made when no one was looking. But he wishes us more than this.

She would not allow herself to remember how Note had treated her, and many others too, she suspected. She had forgiven him, yes, but she still did not like to remember. And perhaps a deliberate act of forgetting went along with forgiveness. You forgave, and then you said to yourself: Now I shall forget. Because if you did not forget, then your forgiveness would be tested, perhaps many times and in ways that you could not resist, and you might go back to anger, and to hating.

Cantó el amor, y el canto suyo era tan límpido y puro como el pensar de una doncella, como los sueños de un niño, como la luna en los cielos, nocturna diosa indolente de los misterios y suspiros. Cantó el dolor y el olvido, cantó las rosas y las brumas, cantó lejanas tierras donde sus lágrimas se derramaban en la soledad; cantó asimismo marchitas flores de la vida teniendo apenas dieciocho.

This lowered him very much in the opinion of all our young fellows. Want of courage is the last thing to be pardoned by young men, who usually look upon bravery as the chief of all human virtues, and the excuse for every possible fault. But, by degrees, everything became forgotten, and Silvio regained his former influence

The stunned knight came upon a field Where nothing lived, just scattered skulls and bones. What battle had been fought, what did it yield? No one remembers why the screams and groans. Why are you mute field? Why overgrown with grasses of oblivion?

Forgotten gods fill the layers of heaven. Quiescent, subordinate, long ago superseded. Waiting. And every so often, reminded of their own existence. ~~~

Being a holy people included seeking justice. The Sabbath and Jubilee Year practices gave everyone equal rights, freedom, and second chances. Slaves would be freed, and land would be restored to the family that originally owned it. Unfortunately, rich landowners eventually claimed the land, and this plan for equality was forgotten. This injustice is one reason that the nation of Israel did not last. Even today God calls his people to seek justice and mercy for everyone.

The worst feeling isn't being lonely, it is being forgotten.

Thank goodness for all the things you are not, thank goodness you're not something someone forgot, and left all alone in some punkerish place, like a rusty tin coat hanger hanging in space.

Thinking of his forebears, it seemed the actual moment of death was not important to record: you died when those who lived forgot your existence.

The only truly dead are those who have been forgotten.

Jane Francklyne, born in 1565, had lived for less than a month. She left very little behind. She was buried in the Ecton churchyard, but her father would hardly have paid a carver to engrave so small a stone. If not for the parish register, there would be no record that this Jane Francklyne had ever lived at all. History is what is written and can be found; what isn't saved is lost, sunken and rotted, eaten by the earth.

Fiction is the history of the obscure.

The spiders, honeybees, yellow jackets, and mud daubers: these insects still speak - a language that is older than humans. The buffalo, elk, wolf, coyote -they still talk too. It's we, the people, who have forgotten how to listen. [Osage Spider Story, an Osage Legend, told by Archie Mason, Jr]

I push him from my mind. This is no act of easy omission on my part; I do not consign him casually to a forgotten past. It is rather an act of will--a kind of self-performed surgery on my soul...the bloodiest of mutilations.

When I was with my mother, I sometimes thought of myself of a trophy—something to be flaunted before friends. When out of public view, I sat on the shelf ignored and forgotten.

When I was with my mother, I sometimes thought of myself as a trophy-something to be flaunted before friends. When out of public view, I sat on the shelf, ignored and forgotten.

She thought of all the things she'd forgotten to be scared of.

That's the point. People look for greatness only in the extraordinary and completely overlook the wonder of the ordinary. That's why those moments are all forgotten, counted as nothing. It's a terrible loss.