Quotes About Forgotten

Here I love you. Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain. I love you still among these cold things. Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels that cross the sea towards no arrival. I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.

ah my love, ah my own, in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine.

How did the abandoned bicycle win its freedom?

Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you little by little. If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you.

Caen pensamientos de amor en los volcanes extinguidos? Do thoughts of love fall into extinct volcanoes?

We old athletes carry the disfigurements and markings of contests remembered only by us and no one else. Nothing is more lost than a forgotten game.

Faey lived, for those who knew how to find her, within Ombria's past. Parts of the city's past lay within time's reach, beneath the streets in great old limestone tunnels: the hovels and mansions and sunken river that Ombria shrugged off like a forgotten skin, and buried beneath itself through the centuries.

How comfortable to be dead and buried, with your virtues proclaimed upon the headstone of a nicely tended grave and all your faults forgotten.

The cries of hopelessness against the howling wind of the Pyrenees and the soft sobs of forgotten men.

and the thing that shocked her the most was how quickly such absences began to close. even after a few weeks, you could see how soon her parents would be forgotten, how their presence became an absence, and then...what? What did you call an absence that ceased to become an absence? what do you call a hole that has been filled in?

The past is dead and buried. But I know now that buried things have a way of rising to the surface when one least expects them to.

I had forgotten that monsters do not die. They must be killed.

I wore it, this careless thing you don't even remember giving to me from your bag. It wasn't a gift, this thing I'm returning. It was barely a gesture, almost forgotten already, this thing I wore like it was dear to me. And it was. No wonder we broke up.

On the sidewalk, a discarded refrigerator with its face ripped off, and on the curb an old mattress with wire intestines hanging out of its belly.

"But the needy will not always be forgotten, nor the hope of the afflicted ever perish."

The say Japan was made by a sword. They sat the old gods dipped a coral blade into the ocean, and when they pulled it out, four perfect drops fell back into the sea, and those drops became the islands of Japan. I say, Japan was made by a handful of brave men. Warriors, willing to give their lives for what seems to have become a forgotten word: Honor.

Yes, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, but everyone forgets the second half of that quote: the road to heaven is paved with good actions.

It is safest to grasp the concept of the postmodern as an attempt to think the present historically in an age that has forgotten how to think historically in the first place.

I would prefer to be forgotten, then rediscovered in a different age.

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.

I've decided that the worst part of loneliness isn't being alone. It's being forgotten.

It is a simple but sometimes forgotten truth that the greatest enemy to present joy and high hopes is the cultivation of retrospective bitterness.

History goes blind and in darkness, neither sees nor is seen, nor is known except as a carrion marked with unintelligible wounds; dragging its dead body, living, yet to be born, it moves heavily to its glories. It tramples the little towns, forgets their names.

The easy assumption that we have remembered the most important people and events and have preserved the most valuable evidence is immediately trumped by our inability to know what we have forgotten.