Quotes About Remembrance

If there ever comes a day when we can't be together, keep me in your heart. I'll stay there forever.

The house had been torn down. Nothing is left but the old white fence. There used to be privet bushes everywhere. The smell of privet is the smell of summer for me, I say to Catherine. Yes, Mom. she says, I know, Your memories are my memories now.

Die when I may, I want it said of me by those who knew me best, that I always plucked a thistle and planted a flower where I thought a flower would grow.

Through their deeds, the dead of battle have spoken more eloquently for themselves than any of the living ever could. But we can only honor them by rededicating ourselves to the cause for which they gave a last full measure of devotion.

if you want your name to be remembered after your death either do something worth writing or write some thing worth reading

The world will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.

THAT FROM THESE HONORED DEAD WE TAKE INCREASED DEVOTION TO THAT CAUSE FOR WHICH THEY GAVE THE LAST FULL MEASURE OF DEVOTION;...

To this day, most attempts to stage the history of transatlantic slavery in museums have stood out through their vacuity. In them, the slave appears, at best, as the appendix to another history, a citation at the bottom of a page devoted to someone else, to other places, to other things. For that matter, were the figure of the slave really to enter into the museum, such as it exists nowadays, the museum would automatically cease to be.

Ä°nsanlar söylediklerinizi ya da yapt?klar?n?z? unutur, ama onlara neler hissettirdiÄŸinizi asla unutmaz...

How could I forget you, Darryl? You called me God.

In Berlin, there are no museums or monuments to the slaughtered Hereros, and in Paris and Lisbon no visible reminders of the rubber terror that slashed in half the populations of parts of French and Portuguese Africa. In

The French government employs teams of démineurs, roving bomb-disposal specialists, who respond to calls when villagers discover shells; they collect and destroy 900 tons of unexploded munitions each year. More than 630 French démineurs have died in the line of duty since 1946. Like those shells, the First World War itself has remained in our lives, below the surface, because we live in a world that was so much formed by it and by the industrialized total warfare it inaugurated.

Of the 120,000 British troops who went into battle on July 1, 1916, more than 57,000 were dead or wounded before the day was over—nearly two casualties for every yard of the front. Nineteen thousand were killed, most of them within the attack's first disastrous hour, and some 2,000 more who were badly wounded would die in hospitals later.

John Kipling is still among the more than 400,000 British Empire dead from 1914–1918 whose resting place is not known.

some half-million pounds of First World War scrap is still collected from French and Belgian fields each year.

On this final half day of the war, after the peace was signed, 2,738 men from both sides were killed and more than 8,000 wounded.

there is a tall marble memorial on which the names of their dead are listed.

When you lose someone, they take a bigger place in your heart, not a smaller one. Every day it grows, because you don't stop loving them. You wish you could talk to them.

still miss my mother. Isn't it funny? You forget plenty, but never your mother.

Who would tell the story of the elephant when she was gone? A family was only as strong as their stories.

And there they ring the walls, the young, the lithe. The handsome hold the graves they won in Troy; the enemy earth rides over those who conquered.

We mourn the martyrs of Karbala our skins torn with chains.

The fear of forgetting anything precious can trigger in us the wish to raise a structure, like a paperweight to hold down our memories. We might even follow the example of the Countess of Mount Edgcumbe, who in the late eighteenth century had a thirty-foot-high Neoclassical obelisk erected on a hill on the outskirts of Plymouth, in memory of an unusually sensitive pig called Cupid, whom she did not hesitate to call a true friend.

When dead she would exist only in the memories of people. She, who had never been subject to anyone would now be on the par with everybody else. Reading could not change that. Though writing might.