Quotes About Remembrance

Grief strikes where love struck first.

May I wish you the joy of the season, and remembrance of all that is good in the past, together with hope for the future.

Dig deep, deep, my soul, to find the heart--the blood, the heat, the shrine and resting place. Dig deep, deep into the moist soil all the way to where they lie, those I love--she, Mother, with her dark hair loose and gone, her bones long since tumbled in the back of the vault, as other coffins came to rest in her spot, but in this dream I range them round me to hold as if she were there...

Don't regret it when you don't come to see me. I think I'm timeless. You're here now and you've remembered me. That's what counts.

We live forever; but they don't come back.

Remember me not for my weakness, for my sins, or for my poor judgment. But that I loved you.

Out, out, brief candle." Such comforting remembrance can turn in an instant to agony.

I carry the obligation as if she were still with me, as if even now I had to go and spend my hours in her shrine.

How many centuries must pass before the blood of so many has soaked deep enough into the earth to be forgotten?

They have been buried, nameless, beneath five centuries of time.

He was a boy dying here whom few would remember except for me.

Ma la bambina, quell'antica bambina, la mia Claudia, era cenere. Un urlo crebbe dentro di me, un selvaggio e devastante urlo che veniva dalle viscere del mio essere; si alzava come il vento che faceva turbinare la pioggia su quelle ceneri, che batteva sull'impronta di una mano, sui mattoni, che sollevava quei capelli biondi.

No mortal lives long enough to forget their great loves entirely, do they.

She might have forgotten names and faces and people and events, but she hadn't forgotten emotions.

People imagine that missing a loved one works kind of like missing cigarettes. The first day is really hard but the next day is less hard and so forth, easier and easier the longer you go on. But instead it's like missing water. Every day, you notice the person's absence more.

What nobody understood about David, with the possible exception of Greta, was that he had suffered a very serious loss in his life. Two losses, in fact. Two very dear children: Emily and Nicholas. It was true that these days there happened to be two very dear grown-ups who were also named Emily and Nicholas, but they weren't the same people. It was just as if those children had died. He'd been in mourning ever since.

It is funny, but it strikes me that a person without anecdotes that they nurse while they live, and that survive them, are more likely to be utterly lost not only to history but the family following them. Of course this is the fate of most souls, reducing entire lives, no matter how vivid and wonderful, to those sad black names on withering family trees, with half a date dangling after and a question mark.

There is an arch supported by four vast columns. Etched over hundreds and hundreds of yards of stone, furlongs of stone, there are names: Who are these, these? The men who died in this battle? No. The lost, the ones they did not find. The others are in the cemeteries. These are just the ... the unfound. When she could speak again. From the whole war? The man shook his head. Just these fields. Elizabeth sat on the steps. No one told me. My God no one told me

You can't recall someone whose name has worn away.

I will think of you every day. All the time. If ever you should think of me and wonder what I'm doing, I'm thinking of you. That's all I'll be doing. Nothing else.

No child or future generation will ever know what this was like. They will never understand. When it is over we will go quietly among the living and we will not tell them. We will talk and sleep and go about our business like human beings. We will seal what we have seen in the silence of our hearts and no words will reach us.

Los buenos actos resuenan a nuestro paso, mucho tiempo después de que hayamos olvidado haberlos realizado.

I am glad I have found this napkin. This was her first remembrance from the Moor, My wayward husband hath a hundred times Wooed me to steal it, but she so loves the token— For he conjured her she should ever keep it— That she reserves it evermore about her To kiss and talk to. I'll ha' the work ta'en out, And give't Iago. What he will do with it, Heaven knows, not I. I nothing, but to please his fantasy.

Tomorrow we will be nothing but earth and dust. Who will remember the love a soldier once knew?