Quotes About Recollection

Memory is the treasury and guardian of all things." — Cicero

Great, you ruined my life and you don't even remember it.

He wouldn't be remembered well.

But he'd brought new wisdom from the high places. He knew now that things forgotten might be recalled; things lost, found again.

When you remember this moment later you will understand that I was saying goodbye even if you did not know it.

Memory is the past with volume control.

It was a night in late August, a night that rekindled in rattling windows and tree branch palsy that lost recollection of autumn, misplaced for the succession of bright summer distractions, trapped heat in small rooms and sweaty underarms.

She would want, instead, to recall him in the air, between layers of cloud. To give him back that ancient dignity.

I can still to this day hear my folks whispering and laughing before they went off to sleep: perhaps it is all I want to recall, perhaps our stories should stop on a dime, maybe things could begin and end right there, at the moment of laughter, but things don't begin and end really, I suppose; they just keep on going.

He could be in any mood or any place and, unbidden, it returned.

There isn't a story in the world that isn't in part, at least, addressed to the past. I

Memory is three-quarters imagination and all the rest is lies.

She remembered how her parents had warned her about Malloy, and she remembered how Malloy warned her about Malloy. Too many things to remember.

will follow you precisely because you had forgotten to think of it.

Olvidar es una función tan importante de la memoria como recordar.

The summer is put away folded up in the drawer with other summers.

If life has a base that it stands upon, if it is a bowl that one fills and fills and fills - than my bowl without a doubt stands upon this memory.

Memory is the seamstress, and a capricious one at that. Memory runs her needle in and out, up and down, hither and thither. We know not what comes next, or what follows after.

These scenes, by the way, are not altogether a literary device - a means of summing up and making a knot of innumerable little threads. Innumerable threads were there; still, if I stopped to disentangle, I could collect a number. But whatever the reason may be, I find that scene making is my natural way of marking the past.

Nothing revives the past so completely as a smell that was once associated with it.

How small the cosmos (a kangaroo's pouch would hold it), how paltry and puny in comparison to human consciousness, to a single individual recollection, and its expression in words!

memory can restore to life everything except smells, although nothing revives the past so completely as a smell that was once associated with it.

I could isolate, consciously, little. Everything seemed blurred, yellow-clouded, yielding nothing tangible. Her inept acrostics, maudlin evasions, theopathies - every recollection formed ripples of mysterious meaning. Everything seemed yellowly blurred, illusive, lost.

The act of vividly recalling a patch of the past is something that I seem to have been performing with the utmost zest all my life, and I have reason to believe that this almost pathological keenness of the retrospective faculty is a hereditary trait.