Quotes About Remembrance

Wenn wir einen geliebten Menschen verlieren, behalten wir doch immer ein Kleidungsstück von ihm wenigstens solange wir den Geruch des Verlorenen noch an ihm wahrnehmen können und tatsächlich bis in unserem Tod hinein, weil wir auch dann noch glauben, sein Geruch machte uns dieses Kleidungsstück gegenwärtig, wenn das auch längst nur mehr noch nichts ist als Einbildung.

while it was important not to forget what happened to us in the Holocaust, it was equally important not to hold the descendants of the perpetrators responsible for what was done to us, lest the cycle of hate and violence never end.

Nameless, unknown to me as you were, I couldn't forget your voice!' 'For how long?' 'O - ever so long. Days and days.' 'Days and days! Only days and days? O, the heart of a man! Days and days!' 'But, my dear madam, I had not known you more than a day or two. It was not a full-blown love - it was the merest bud - red, fresh, vivid, but small. It was a colossal passion in embryo. It never returned.

she, like all others, had moments of commonplace, when to be least plainly seen was to be most prettily remembered

No olvidamos las penurias de Egipto, no olvidamos a Haman, no olvidamos a Hitler. Así como no olvidamos a los injustos, no olvidamos a los justos. Recordemos pues a Oskar Schindler.

We do not forget the sorrows of Egypt, we do not forget Haman, we do not forget Hitler. Thus, among the unjust, we do not forget the just. Remember Oskar Schindler.

I am seen by You under the sky, and my offenses have been forgotten by You--but I have not forgotten them.

the hole left by the moon's tearing-free and monument to her exile;

Love never goes away Never completely dies Always some souvenir Takes us by sad surprise You went away from me, One rose was left behind -- Pressed in my Book of Hours That is the rose I find Though it's another year Though it's another me, Under the rose is a a drying tear, Under my linden tree Love never goes away, Not if it's really true It can return, by night, by day Tender and green and new As the leaves from a linden tree, love, that I left with you

LONG, long before Mrs. Lewis cooked for the Burbanks, a tree fell on Mr. Lewis in the woods and killed him in his "prime." Mrs. Lewis hoped to be one with him again in what she called their eternal home, but the suspended relationship left her with a mixed bag of acid sayings, bitter observations and chilly maxims.

The numbers of people enslaved within Africa itself exceeded the numbers exported. History has largely forgotten them.

I would have preferred raised stones as markers," she said simply, and he understood that she was confiding a deeply private thing to him. "I imagined something upright, tall, with chiseled angels rising from it. I wanted a curved elaborate script to spell their names, a poem or a prayer carved into marble. I wanted a building built. A mausoleum.: She sighed. "I wanted something as magnificent as grief.

I stopped in the tiny garden that encloses the Tolsta war memorial. The bronze plaque lists too many names for this small place; the same surnames recur over and again. The memorial, in the shape of an open book, also remembers the many soldiers who were returning to Lewis from the Great War, only to be drowned when their ship, the Iolaire, struck rocks outside Stornoway Harbour, which is a difficult one to make sense of.

For every joy that passes, something beautiful remains.

Ghosts, after all, have little to celebrate and the living have plenty to mourn.

I am gone and am not coming back, but I remember everything.

Remember me when I am dead and simplify me when I'm dead.

Lidice, along with thousands of other villages, was switched off like a light.

An odd byproduct of the Curse: muscle memory lived a surprising half-life. I'd sometimes find myself the recipient of blips and bursts of centuries-old information. Brushing my teeth above the record store, I'd suddenly remember the protocol for dissecting a cadaver in the seventeenth century or, I don't know, how to operate a steam-powered printing press. I had a rudimentary, working remembrance of eight or ten languages.

In the Canadiens' dressing room, on a wall above the players' lockers, is a line from John McCrae's poem, "In Flanders Fields." It reads: To you from failing hands we throw the torch, be yours to hold it high.

Loved. You can't use it in the past tense. Death does not stop that love at all.

I don't imagine I'll ever get over missing him, Raymond said. Some things you don't get over. I believe this'll be one of them.

Quickly, the dragon came at him, encouraged As Beowulf fell back; its breath flared, And he suffered, wrapped around in swirling Flames -- a king, before, but now A beaten warrior. None of his comrades Came to him, helped him, his brave and noble Followers; they ran for their lives, fled Deep in a wood. And only one of them Remained, stood there, miserable, remembering, As a good man must, what kinship should mean.

They only name things after you when you're dead or really old.