Quotes About History

But she didn't believe in God. Or Jesus. Or Satan. Or prayer. I believe in words, she said. I believe in numbers and all the history I understand. I believe in things I can see. When he was a little boy she used to hug him and say, And man-oh-man how I believe in you, Aubrey. My love. My light. My life.

First they brought us here. Then we worked for free. Then it was 1863, and we were supposed to be free but we weren't. And that's why people are so mad.

I want to write this down, that the revolution is like a merry-go-round, history always being made somewhere. And maybe for a short time, we're a part of that history. And then the ride stops and our turn is over.

My grandmother tells us all this as we sit at her feet, each story like a photograph we can look right into, see our mother there marchers and dogs and kittens all blending

I want to write this down, that revolution is like a merry-go-round, history always being made somewhere. And maybe for a short time, we're part of that history. And then the ride stops and our turn is over. We walk slowly toward the park, where I can already see the big swings empty and waiting for me. And after I write it down, maybe I'll end it this way. My name is Jacqueline Woodson and I am ready for the ride.

Even when my girls were little, we'd go down there, my grandmother tells us. And people'd be marching. The marching didn't just start yesterday. Police with those dogs, scared everybody near to death. Just once I let my girls march.

But now I knew there were so many ways to get hung from a cross—a mother's love for you morphing into something incomprehensible. A dress ghosted in another generation's dreams. A history of fire and ash and loss. Legacy.

You know what, Daddy? What you got for me, Melody? This place feels like from a long time ago. It feels like it's in the past tense.

Maybe this was the moment when I knew I was part of a long line of almost erased stories. A child of denial. Of magical thinking.

Her deeply tanned skin and dark gray eyes made people look at her, then look at him. She'd always kept her hair cut short, but that year it had grown into loose curls with so much gray and blond moving through it. They didn't match, the two of them. When he held his arm against hers and asked why, she laughed and said, The black ancestors beat the crap out of the white ones and said, Let this baby on through.

I do know that as the novel takes shape on the page, it's hard for characters' lives not to intersect with the writer's own life. As we unpack our characters' stories and actions, it's hard not to unpack our own history.

Except among those whose education has been in the minimalist style, it is understood that hasty moral judgments about the past are a form of injustice

History, like a vast river, propels logs, vegetation, rafts, and debris; it is full of live and dead things, some destined for resurrection; it mingles many waters and holds in solution invisible substances stolen from distant soils.

Except among those whose education has been in the minimalist style, it is understood that hasty moral judgments about people in the past are a form of injustice.

To delve into history entails, besides the grievance of hard work, the danger that in the depths one may lose one's scapegoats.

The feeble clavichord did not carry far; the harpsichord was only a little stronger; but Cristofori in Italy was working at these defects; he built a machine he called clavicembalo piano e forte — a keyboard instrument to play "soft and loud." Contrary to all experience, we now call it simply "a soft.

Those who count on the good will of mankind display a delirious, idealistic optimism. Centuries of history, despite the facts, have not been able to convince them of the contrary; reason certainly will not change them. But they are so far removed from reality that their opinion is negligible.

Le premier symbole où nous reconnaissons l'humanité dans ses vestiges est la sépulture, et le truchement de la mort se reconnaît en toute relation où l'homme vient à la vie de son histoire.

I identify myself in language, but only by losing myself in it like an object. What is realised in my history is not the past definite of what was, since it is no more, or even the present perfect of what has been in what I am, but the future anterior of what I shall have been for what I am in the process of becoming.

What is realised in my history is not the past definitive of what it was, since it is no more, or even the present perfect of what has been in what I am, but the future anterior of what I shall have been for what I am in the process of becoming.

Quetzalcóatl-santo Tomás sería una de las más poderosas palancas de que dispondrían los criollos para inclinar a Nueva España hacia el separatismo, prosiguiendo con el glorioso pasado del Anáhuac.

Historical reality has two sides. One is made ??up of facts, events, material realities, and one of the ideas, images and dreams.

Escutemos bem Marc Bloch. Ele não diz: a história é uma arte, a história é literatura. Frisa: a história é uma ciência, mas uma ciência que tem como uma de suas características, o que pode significar sua fraqueza mas também sua virtude, ser poética, pois não pode ser reduzida a abstrações, a leis, a estruturas.

If books were judged by the bad uses man can put them to, what book has been more misused than the Bible?