Quotes About Remembrance

Honor' is a word applied to the actions of men from the past who have had their lives scrubbed clean by historians.

Truth can never be defeated, Sarene. Even if people do forget about it occasionally.

Remembering the fallen was important, but working to protect the living was more so.

Did you know that even then, with computers and libraries and all kinds of reminders, we found it easy to forget where we came from? Maybe because we had machines to do the remembering for us, we felt we could simply leave it to them.

All things have a soul. A vase, a wall, a chair. And when a vase is broken, it might die in the physical realm, but for a time its soul remembers what it was. So all things die twice. Its final death is when men forget it was a vase, and only think of the pieces. I imagine the vase floating away then, its form dissolving into the nothingness.

Which was more potent? The pain of memory, or the pain of forgetting? He

I will remember those who have been forgotten.

Memory is like glass. A person who has died is still visible, very close. But we can no longer contact each other. Death is mute; it excludes conversations, only allows silence.

History isn't just something that's behind us, it's also something that follows us.

Nations are possessed with an insane ambition to perpetuate the memory of themselves by the amount of hammered stone they leave.

Great men, unknown to their generation, have their fame among the great who have preceded them, and all true worldly fame subsides from their high estimate beyond the stars.

If I could stay — For me you'll always be here, she softly interrupted.

You see, people forget you

To the best of my recollection the event must have taken place during the year when I was looking for a job without the slightest intention of taking one. It reminded me that, desperate as I thought myself then to be, I had not even bothered to look through the columns of the want ads.

Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time

The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark

Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives, When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives, Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain, But never will be sung to us again, Is they remembrance. Now the hour of rest Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling: it is best.

He spake well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.

When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.

STILL stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow,   Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.

Remembrance of the past may give rise to dangerous insights, and the established society seems to be apprehensive of the subversive contents of memory.

He entered the city asked a blind man if he had ever heard the name Enkidu, and the old man shrugged and shook his head, then turned away, as if to say, 'It is impossible to keep the names of friends whom we have lost

In glades they meet skull after skull/Where pine-cones lay--the rusted gun,/Green shoes full of bones, the mouldering coat/And cuddled-up skeleton;/And scores of such. Some start as in dreams,/And comrades lost bemoan:/By the edge of those wilds Stonewall had charged--/But the Year and the Man were gone. (The Armies of the Wilderness)

For the scene of suffering is a scene of joy when the suffering is past; and the silent reminiscence of hardships departed is sweeter than the presence of delight.