Quotes About Remembrance

There was something so heavy about the burden of history, of the past.

The past was always present, in its way, and you can't help but remember. Even if you can't remember at all.

Isn't it weird the way you remember things, when someone's gone?

I don't know how I stay alive. What I do know is that there is a light, far above us, that goes out when we die, and that in Hell there is a gray tulip that grows without any sun. It reminds me of everything I failed at, and I water it carefully. It is all I have to remind me of you.

If Americans can transform Memorial Day, technically a remembrance of all our war dead ever, into the official kickoff of summer, we can handle adapting one demoralizing battle into a wholesome, chipper get-together.

Going up, Herzong found a bouquet of violets, dropped from the hand of a woman. Perhaps a bride. Little perfume remained in them, but they made him remember... These violets smelled to him like female tears. He gave them a burial in the trash ca, hoping they had not dropped from a disappointed hand.

What the first Christians knew as the "New Testament" was not a book, but the Eucharist. In a cultic setting, at a solemn sacrificial banquet, Jesus made an offering of his "body" and "blood." He used traditional sacrificial language. He spoke of the action as his memorial. He told those who attended to repeat the action they had witnessed: "Do this in remembrance of me" (Luke 22:19).

presence on earth, left in the minds and souls of those who loved them, but those don't last long.

Wohl dem, der seiner Väter gern gedenkt, Der froh von ihren Taten, ihrer Größe, Den Hörer unterhält und still sich freuend Ans Ende dieser schönen Reihe sich Geschlossen sieht!

You bid me burn your letters. But I must forget you first.

All that the historians give us are little oases in the desert of time, and we linger fondly in these, forgetting the vast tracks between one and another that were trodden by the weary generations of men.

The only thing you take with you when you're gone is what you leave behind.

We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind. In the faith that looks through death, in years that bring the philosophic mind.

The living reduce the dead to those who have lived; yet the dead already include the living in their own great collective.

The tombstones are not very different from those in other European cemeteries. Many record the deaths of several generations: the name, the year of birth, the day of death and the place of death, if it was not on the island. A name and two dates, the last one precise to the very day. This is what is recorded. About what happened between, apart from the bare fact of survival, not a word is written.

only the victims and survivors can truly comprehend the awfulness of that time and place; the rest of us live on the other side of the fence, staring through from our own comfortable place, trying in our own clumsy ways to make sense of it all.

Their lost voices Must continue to be heard.

It's not easy losing someone," she said. "It never goes away, does it?" "The Phantom Pain, they call it," I said. "Like amputees get when they can still feel their missing limbs.

Oh the remembrance of my great sins, of my great temptations, and of my great fear of perishing forever! They bring afresh into my mind the remembrance of my great help, my great supports from Heaven, and the great grace that God extended to such a wretch as I.

It is profitable for Christians to be often calling to mind the very beginnings of grace with their souls.

Every instance in which the mercy of God occurs to our remembrance, ought to be embraced by us as an occasion of ascribing glory to God.

I will never come back, and if I do there will be nothing left, there will be nothing left but the headstones to record what has happened; there will really be nothing at all.

I once knew a word I forget That mean "I am sorry we met And I wish you the same." It sounds like your name But I haven't remember that yet.

There is nothing but poetry about the existence of childhood real simple soul-moving poetry the laughter and joy of poetry and not its philosophy and there is nothing of poetry about manhood but the reflection and the remembrance of what has been—nothing more