Quotes About Remembrance

everyone knows that while we have to go on, we can never, should never, forget.

It is not merely the likeness which is precious . . . but the association and sense of nearness involved in the thing . . . the fact of the very shadow of the person lying there fixed forever!   —ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

it's left to us still living to miss those who aren't.

She was a fine woman, and lived a good and long life. But it's left to us still living to miss those who aren't.

When you forget what you have for what you've lost, grieving's an indulgence.

The girl's lover was gone, but his shadow was still there.

The girl traced the outline of her lover's shadow so she would always have a record of how he looked...

From famous artists to building contractors, we all want to leave our signature. Our lasting effect. Your life after death. We all want to explain ourselves. Nobody wants to be forgotten.

Some little part of themselves for someone in the future to discover. Maybe a thought. We were here. We built this. A reminder.

The most I can ever do is write things down. To remember them. The details. To honor them in some way.

Ev­ery­one else I could call is dead.

Schlechte Erinnerungen sind besser als gar keine.

The faster the dead could be honored, the faster they could be forgotten.

Who can call a man dead whose words still hush and whose sentiments move?

He wouldn't be remembered well.

So quickly? Todd cleared away another wave of tears and looked down at the body on the table. Dempsey's eye was still half-open, but it didn't look back at him any longer. Where there'd been a sliver of bright life, where there'd been mischief and shared rituals—where, in short, there'd been Dempsey—there was nothing.

Nobody's allowed to come and mourn, you see. Out of sight, out of mind: that's the idea. Of course, that's not the way it works, is it? People forget prime ministers, but they remember murderers.

Hate remembered though; hate remembered long after love had forgotten

A feeling of intense loss overwhelmed him for a moment as he thought of his once-charmed life—of love, and magic, and friends, all of it, and all of them, dead.

Who can call a man dead whose words still hush us and whose sentiments move?

Two other women took their own lives that spring, more than usual but nothing remarkable. No one with a name that would be remembered come winter, so shallow was their mark.

He was aware of his body as a shell. Fragile, thin as excuses. A vessel containing the dust of his essential him-ness which would be lost when the vessel failed. Well, that was the way of the world. For a time he was fixed in his body, stuck and named and fixed in place, but one day that would not be the case. One day only his name would remain, on a tombstone or etched onto an urn, marking his dried bones or ashes.

She would want, instead, to recall him in the air, between layers of cloud. To give him back that ancient dignity.

If Abir had not gone, she would not need to be remembered. Her absence, then, was her presence.