Quotes About Remembrance

I'll never forget you. I'll never forget your voice or your face or your dumb jokes. And i'll never forget your love.

I thought I was long done with the Firsts. First Easter since his death, First Birthday, First Trip to IHOP, First Phillies Game. But everything we ever did together, that we'd never share again--like Longwood Gardens at Christmas--still waited before me. In that moment, I dreaded the rest of my life.

El peñasco árido, donde siempre elevo sus cometas, lo esperaba ansiosamente cada año, hasta que Martín olvidó volver.

Hoy, aún no sé dónde llevarle unas flores a su tumba.

We deceive ourselves into thinking life is long, but fire reminds us-it is flickering. Life is a flickering-and then it is gone. So, we must make the most of it. Fire is red. It is yellow. It is blue. It is black as ash, brown as seared lines on timbers. Fire is the pink of flesh, and the gray of smoke that trails. Fire is the all-color that dwells before color, that which comes when one feels a fire will be set...

When the person you love has died, any indication that they once lived is received gratefully, or alternatively, you want to pretend that nothing good has ever taken place in the world.

The days, the weeks, the years out here shall come back again, and our dead comrades shall then stand up again and march with us, our heads shall be clear, we shall have a purpose, and so we shall march, our dead comrades beside us, the years at the Front behind us:—against whom, against whom?

Comrade, I say to the dead man, but I say it calmly, today you tomorrow me, but if I come out of it, comrade, I will fight against this, that has struck us both down; from you taken life-and from me-? Life also. I promise you, comrade. It shall never happen again

Erich Maria Remarque

the invisible storehouse in nothingness, called memory.

Here lies our comrade, Kemmerich, who a little while ago was roasting horse flesh with us and squatting in the shell-holes. He it is still and yet it is not he any longer. His features have become uncertain and faint, like a photographic plate from which two pictures have been taken. Even his voice sounds like ashes.

We have yielded no more than a few hundred yards of it as a prize to the enemy. But on every yard there lies a dead man.

it would be like gazing at the photograph of a dead comrade; those are his features, it is his face, and the days we spent together take on a mournful life in the memory; but the man himself it is not.

So long as I do not know his name perhaps I may still forget him, time will obliterate it, this picture. But his name, it is a nail that will be hammered into me and never come out again. It has the power to recall this forever, it will always come back and stand before me.

They are not really thoughts; they are memories that come to torment me in my weakness and put me into a strange mood. Up go

The graveyard is a mass of wreckage. Coffins and corpses lie strewn about. They have been killed once again; but each of them that was flung up saved one of us.

Erich Maria Remarque

Keista,- tar? Lencas po valand?l?s,- kod?l visokiems žmon?ms paminklai statomi, o kod?l nepasta?ius paminklo m?nuliui arba žydin?iam medžiui.

He fell in October 1918, on a day that was so quiet and still on the whole front, that the army report confined itself to the single sentence: All quiet on the Western Front. He had fallen forward and lay on the earth as though sleeping.

Die Schwierigkeit mit dem Krieg ist, dass die Leute, die ihn wollen, nicht erwarten, in ihm zu sterben. Und die Schwierigkeit mit unserer Erinnerung ist, dass sie vergisst und verändert und verfälscht, um zu überleben. Sie macht den Tod zu einem Abenteuer, wenn der Tod dich verfehlt. Aber der Tod ist kein Abenteuer: Töten ist der Sinn des Krieges, - nicht Überleben.

I'm still in shape. I jog along the Charles each evening. If I go five miles, I get to glimpse the lights of Harvard just across the river. And see all the places I had walked when I was happy. I run back in the darkness, reminiscing just to pass the time. Sometimes I ask myself what I would be if Jenny were alive. And I answer: I would be alive.

Of the four men in Preston Prichard's cabin, D-90, only one survived, his friend Arthur Gadsden. Prichard's body was never recovered, yet in the red volume that now contains the beautifully archived replies to Mrs. Prichard's letters there exists a surprisingly vivid sense of him, as though he resided still in the peripheral vision of the world.

No one you love is ever truly lost.

Every man has two deaths, when he is buried in the ground and the last time someone says his name. In some ways men can be immortal.