Quotes About Recollection

Everything lasts for a day, the one who remembers and the remembered.

Nothing stands out so conspicuously, or remains so firmly fixed in the memory, as something which you have blundered.

Liberty is rendered even more precious by the recollection of servitude.

It is strong proof of men knowing things before birth, that when mere children they grasp innumerable facts with such speed as to show that they are not then taking them in for the first time, but are remembering and recalling them.

I wanted to forget the past, but it refused to forget me; it waited for sleep, then cornered me.

Where do the words go when we have said them?

To pronounce the name of the dead is to make them live again.

with shrunken fingers we ate our oranges and bread, shivering in the parked car; though we know we had never been there before, we knew we had been there before.

Such a cruel thing, memory. We can't remember what it is that we've forgotten. That we have been made to forget. That we've had to forget, in order to pretend to live here in a normal way.

This form of love is like the pain of childbirth: so intense it's hard to remember afterwards

It's my fault. I am forgetting too much.

We can't remember what it is that we've forgotten. That we have been made to forget.

most people prefer a past is which nothing smells.

It disturbs me that he can remember some of these things about himself, but not others; that the things he's lost or misplaced exist now only for me. If he's forgotten so much, what have I forgotten?

The collective memory is notoriously faulty, and much of the past sinks into the ocean of time to be drowned forever; but once in a while the waters part, allowing us to glimpse a flash of hidden treasure, if only for a moment.

I've forgotten about these things all winter, but here they are again, and when I see them I remember them, I know them, I greet them as if they are home.

WITHOUT MEMORY, there is no debt. Put another way: without story, there is no debt.

He'd forgotten what delight felt like.

I always remembered what she looked like, the dried apple face, the silvery gray hair, the snapping blue eyes.

Then I remembered something I'd seen and hadn't noticed, at the time. It wasn't the army. It was some other army.

so hard, sometimes, to tag those memories accurately.

Stories are no good, not even the short ones, because by the time you get to the second page he's forgotten the beginning. Where are we without our plots?

The north smells different from the city: clearer, thinner. You can see farther. A sawmill, a hill of sawdust, the teepee shape of a sawdust burner; the smokestacks of the copper smelters, the rocks around them bare of trees, burnt-looking, the heaps of blackened slag: I've forgotten about these things all winter, but here they are again, and when I see them I remember them, I know them, I greet them as if they are home.

Dearest one, do you remember When we last did meet?