Quotes About Remembrance

Time whereof the memory of man runneth not to the contrary.

Take up our quarrel with the foe! To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders' fields.

O may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again...

Luella Clark, April Days, 1904

The memories of events and statesmen paled as the years passed. Dust covered them, mud stained them, until they were finally erased as if they had never been. But recently people had come to understand that forgetting was more difficult and complicated than remembering.

Even when it stands vacant the past is never empty.

Never can that be told, for those who saw and lived through it have lost the gift of words and those who are dead can tell no tales. Those were things which are not told, but forgotten. Fore where they not forgotten, how could they ever be repeated?

Great men die twice, once when they leave this world and a second time when their life work disappears.

Ne treba mene žaliti. Jer svi mi umiremo samo jednom, a veliki ljudi po dva puta; jednom kad ih nestane sa zemlje, a drugi put kad propadne njihova zadužbina.

There is no need to feel sorry for me. For all of us die only once, whereas great men die twice, once when they leave this world and a second time when their lifework disappears.

Njegova kapija je srce mosta koji je srce ove kasabe koja svakom mora da ostane u srcu.

all of us die only once, whereas great men die twice, once when they leave this world and a second time when their lifework disappears.

Ja odlazim, ali moje oko ostaje.

Gone, he kissed the air where she had stood.

I was rough before. I'm sorry. The apology, so quiet and unexpected, embarrassed her. Forget it. She shifted away, drained her cup, set it aside. I won't forget it; neither will you. He took her hand, lifted it to his lips. Nothing could have pleased him more than the quick suspicion on her face. You won't forget me, Eve. You'll think of me, perhaps not fondly, but you'll think of me. I'm in the middle of a murder investigation. You're part of it. Sure, I'll think of you.

Those who survived lived forever with that echo of what was gone sounding inside their heads.

I miss you.…" He stroked the indentation of the gown where her waist would have been—should have been. "I miss you so much.

Every night I went into Hannah's room and sat with her stuff. The thing I couldn't get was how her clothes and her books and her drawings were still there, but she wasn't. It just didn't compute. Her room was a like a car without an engine, everything where it should be, except all it was was potential. None of it was going to get used again.

Grief . . . is a sacred way of honoring those we love.

What do you most want to be remembered for?" she whispered. His lids lifted and his eyes shifted to her own. "My love for you." He blinked slowly. "I wish to be best remembered for how much I loved you. Of all the places I've gone and people I've known and things I've done…my love for you is the purest representation of who I am. It's the best of me, of who I am, of my soul. My love for you…is everything of me.

You want to know what death is! I'll tell you what it is—death is the living forgetting you! What you smell like and look like, what your voice sounds like, how you laugh! Even if there is an afterlife, my death is going to be you going on without me until you can't remember what color my eyes are or how long my hair is—

Ser llorada por buena gente era el mejor legado que alguien puede dejar atrás.

No matter how long gone, you'll always be here. A heartbeat close. A whisper's near.

Something, someone, some spirit was pursuing all of us across the desert of life and was bound to catch us before we reached heaven. Naturally, now that I look back on it, this is only death: death will overtake us before heaven. The one thing that we yearn for in our living days, that makes us sigh and groan and undergo sweet nauseas of all kinds, is the remembrance of some lost bliss that was probably experienced in the womb and can only be reproduced (though we hate to admit it) in death.