Quotes About Remembrance

Every wrong should be made right, and no right should be forgotten.

To rot under marble or to rot under earth is still to rot.

Living up the Moyea with plenty of small chores to distract him, he forgot he was a sad man. When the hymns began, he remembered.

Grainier still went to services some rare times, when a trip to town coincided. People spoke nicely to him there, people recognized him from the days when he'd attended almost regularly with Gladys, but he generally regretted going. He very often wept in church. Living up the Moyea with plenty of small chores to distract him, he forgot he was a sad man. When the hymns began, he remembered.

I will be gone, but I will miss you if I'm still able to miss anything, that is, if some particle of me remains and some particle of you.

Will they remember us, Aravan? Will Mankind remember us at all? ... Mayhap, Gwylly, mayhap. Mayhap in their legends and their fables. Mayhap in naught but their dreams.

She died in a fire. I miss her like you... If I was underwater, I wouldn't miss oxygen that much.

But a man is not forgotten, as long as there are two people left under the sky. One, to tell the story; the other, to hear it.

Roger speaking to Brianna: It's too important. You don't forget having a dad. You do remember your father? No. I remember yours.

Where d'ye think he is now? Jenny said suddenly. Ian, I mean. He glanced at the house, then at the new grave waiting, but of course that wasn't Ian any more. He was panicked for a moment, for his earlier emptiness returning-but then it came to him, and, without surprise, he knew what it was Ian had said to him. On your right, man. On his right. Guarding his weak side. He's just here, he said to Jenny, nodding to the spot between them. Where he belongs.

The colors of living things begin to fade with the last breath, and the soft, springy skin and supple muscle rot within weeks. But the bones sometimes remain, faithful echoes of the shape, to bear some last faint witness to the glory of what was.

Ye dinna stop loving someone just because they're deid," she said reprovingly. "I canna suppose they stop lovin' you, either.

When I'd lost him the first time, before Culloden, I'd remembered. Every moment of our last night together. Tiny things would come back to me through the years: the taste of salt on his temple and the curve of his skull as I cupped his head; the soft fine hair at the base of his neck, thick and damp in my fingers Ã¢â'¬Â¦ the sudden, magical well of his blood in dawning light when I'd cut his hand and marked him forever as my own. Those things had kept him by me.

But a man is not forgotten, as long as there are two people left under the sky. One, to tell the story; the other, to hear it. So.

And then later, at the funeral, members of the family, followed by the tenants and then the servants, had come one by one to add a stone each to the weight of remembrance.

All loss is one, and one loss becomes all, a single death the key to the gate that bars memory.

His most intimate keepsake was one that could not be lost or stolen, though. He flexed his left hand, where the thin white line of the letter "C"—carved a little crookedly, but still perfectly legible—showed on the mound at the base of his thumb. The "J" he had left on her would be likewise still visible, he supposed. He hoped.

We passed the rest of the day in pleasant conversation, wandering among his reminiscences of the dear departed days when men were men, and the pernicious weed of civilization was less rampant upon the bonny wild face of the Highlands.

The duty of a survivor. Not everyone lives to be old, but if you do, I think you owe it to those who didn't. To tell the stories of those who shared your journey…for as long as they could.

ashes of the dead slaves fleeing on the wind, back toward Africa.

When I'd lost him the first time, before Culloden, I'd remembered every moment of our last night together. Tiny things would come back to me through the years: the taste of salt on his temple and the curve of his skull as I cupped his head; the soft fine hair at the base of his neck, thick and damp in my fingers... the sudden, magical well of his blood in dawning light when I'd cut his hand and marked him forever as my own. Those things kept him by me.

we must not speak of him; we must let him be forgotten. But a man is not forgotten, as long as there are two people left under the sky. One, to tell the story; the other, to hear it. So.

War seldom looks on the faces of its dead

It flattened and began to drift out over the sea, the ashes of the dead slaves fleeing on the wind, back toward Africa.