Quotessence
Home / Topics / Memory Quotes

Memory Quotes

Browse 2122 quotes about Memory.

Memory Quotes

“People easily become familiar with what you teach them practically than what you tell them verbally. Action fixes images in their minds and they can carry those images for a long period.”

“Those moments when we learn that mothers rage and fathers kill, that friends betray and authority is fallible, or that our own blank, innocent ignorance can destroy the pure, the good, and the loved are moments the very memory of which constitutes the beginning of a strategy to live in a world where such horrors exist.”

“The way you remember or dream about your loved ones - the ones who are gone - you can't stop their endings from jumping ahead of the rest of their stories. You don't get to choose the chronology of what you dream, or the order of events in which you remember someone. In your mind - in your dreams, in your memories - sometimes the story begins with the epilogue.”

“The picture would remind Oliver of the morning when I first spoke out. Or of the day when we rode by the berm pretending not to notice it. Or of that day we'd decided to picnic there and had vowed not to touch each other, the better to enjoy lying in bed together the same afternoon. I wanted him to have the picture before his eyes for all time, his whole life, in front of his desk, of his bed, everywhere. Nail it everywhere you go, I thought.”

“At such tense moments it often happens, as it happened to me then, that some insignificant object will become forever linked to our extremity. We must recall the exact shape of a leaf whose shadow fell across the blind of a sickroom; the scroll on the handle of a spoon out fingers gripped in the numbness of despair, the lace that edged the handkerchief we pressed to our lips to hide their trembling.”

“And that's all. That's it. The courage, the recklessness, call it what you will, is the flash, the instant of sublimation; then flick! the old darkness again. That's why. It's too strong for steady diet. And if it were a steady diet, it would not be a flash, a glare. And so, being momentary, it can be preserved and prolonged only on paper: a picture, a few written words that any match, a minute and harmless flame that any child can engender, can obliterate in an instant. A one-inch sliver of sulphur-tipped wood is longer than memory or grief; a flame no larger than a sixpence is fiercer than courage or despair.”

“When we lose one we love, our bitterest tears are called forth by the memory of hours when we loved not enough. If we always had smiled on the one who is gone, there would be no despair in our grief; and some sweetness would cling to our tears, reminiscent of virtues and happiness. For our recollections of veritable love—which indeed is the act of virtue containing all others—call from our eyes the same sweet, tender tears as those most beautiful hours wherein memory was born.”

“And with a relentlessness that comes from the world's depths, with a persistence that strikes the keys metaphysically, the scales of a piano student keep playing over and over, up and down the physical backbone of my memory. It's the old streets with other people, the same streets that today are different; it's dead people speaking to me through the transparency of their absence; it's remorse for what I did or didn't do; it's the rippling of streams in the night, noises from below in the quiet building. I feel like screaming inside my head. I want to stop, to break, to smash this impossible phonograph record that keeps playing inside me, where it doesn't belong, an intangible torturer. I want my soul, a vehicle taken over by others, to let me off and go on without me. I'm going crazy from having to hear. And in the end it is I – in my odiously impressionable brain, in my thin skin, in my hypersensitive nerves – who am the keys played in scales, O horrible and personal piano of our memory.”

“I may have come close, but I never had what you had. Something always held me back or stood in the way. How you live your life is your business. But remember, our hearts and our bodies are given to us only once. Most of us can't help but live as though we've got two lives to live, one is the mockup, the other the finished version, and then there are all those versions in between. But there's only one, and before you know it, your heart is worn out, and, as for your body, there comes a point when no one looks at it, much less wants to come near it. Right now there's sorrow. I don't envy the pain. But I envy you the pain.”

“Re-membering is the active, radical process of healing. It is the spiritual and political work of witnessing and gathering the fragmented pieces of history, land and self to mend the bonds severed by colonialism and capitalism. It transforms the raw material of memory into the foundation for collective liberation. It is the process by which love pieces back together.”

“Do you remember the Shire, Mr. Frodo? It'll be spring soon. And the orchards will be in blossom. And the birds will be nesting in the hazel thicket. And they'll be sowing the summer barley in the lower fields... and eating the first of the strawberries with cream. Do you remember the taste of strawberries?”

“Without further ado I left the place, finding my route by the marks I had made on the way in. As I walked in the dark through the tunnels and tunnels of books, I could not help being overcome by a sense of sadness. I couldn't help thinking that if I, by pure chance, had found a whole universe in a single unknown book, buried in that endless necropolis, tens of thousands more would remain unexplored, forgotten forever. I felt myself surrounded by millions of abandoned pages, by worlds and souls without an owner sinking in an ocean of darkness, while the world that throbbed outside the library seemed to be losing its memory, day after day, unknowingly, feeling all the wiser the more it forgot.”

“If you’re searching for a quote that puts your feelings into words – you won’t find it. You can learn every language and read every word ever written – but you’ll never find what’s in your heart. How can you? He has it.”

“There are poisons that blind us and poisons that open our eyes. I don't need these eyes; they're too blind to see. But just because I am blind and unable to perceive beauty doesn't mean it doesn't exist. We often don't realize how much of our joy and interest in life comes through our eyes until we have to live without them. Part of that joy is that our eyes can choose where to look, but our minds can't always choose what to think or remember. Over time, our consciousness becomes steeped in the salt of our tears, and we slowly grow sad and lose hope. Perhaps one day, far from now, I will believe again, and when that day comes, I will write to you and see if you respond.”

“There are tears that blind us and tears that open our eyes. I don't need these eyes; they're too blind to see. But just because I am blind and unable to perceive beauty doesn't mean it doesn't exist. We often don't realize how much of our joy and interest in life comes through our eyes until we have to live without them. Part of that joy is that our eyes can choose where to look, but our minds can't always choose what to think or remember. Over time, our consciousness becomes steeped in the salt of our tears, and we slowly grow sad and lose hope. Perhaps one day, far from now, I will believe again, and when that day comes, I will write to you and see if you respond.”

“Bajé las escaleras, despacio. Sentía una viva emoción. Recordaba la terrible esperanza, el anhelo de vida con que las había subido por primera vez. Me marchaba ahora sin haber conocido nada de lo que confusamente esperaba: la vida en su plenitud, la alegría, el interés profundo, el amor. De la casa de la calle de Aribau no me llevaba nada. Al menos, así creía yo entonces.”

“Let me ask you.... what pulls you into life ...when you gulp inside the hardest of ache...let me ask you.....how you still go on living... knowing the roots have grown so dull....let me ask you ....how you continue living...knowing every walk has become the hardest slog..... for beneath the leaves are the memories... you carefully pushed aside...let me ask you how you meet your eyes when all that you housed inside....is still breathing and burning you alive.....could it be a joy on the other side of loss....could it be a dream on the other side of despair.....”

“Ležim u krevetu i zurim u sliku s tog seoskog vjenčanja. Poželim čašu onog vina u tamnosivoj, visokoj čaši što ju je moja majka kupila u robnoj kući i onda donijela na selo, komplet s vrlo teškim vrčem u koji se točilo vino. U takvim sam čašama provodio seoska ljeta. U tom sivom, debelom staklu, zaštićen od bljeskova, od dodira i od tuđih usana. Bio je to praznični komplet, za goste. Ali samo načelno. Ustvari, te su čaše bile moje i bratove. Iz njih smo pili bevandu, limunadu i u boljim danima Cedevitu. Ja sam se u njih i skrivao, pri svakom strahu ili udarcu dječje tuge, sklonio bih se u to sivo stako, iza čvrstog staklenog obruba koji je imitirao konopac. I to je sklonište radilo. Samo je trebalo zatvoriti oči, naći negdje na jagodicama prstiju barem tihu kretnju i njome se uljuljkati. Ali sad, ja želim otvorenih očiju, zagledan u svoga oca, uz automobil, s ružmarinom u zapučku, ući u tu čašu, ali ne uspijevam.”

“For a moment, she thought she was crying too. But then she realised she was just humming. Finally, she could hear the farm. A snippet of a song played in her head. One of the songs she always heard blasting over the farm’s loudspeakers. A song about summer days under the sun. She could really hear it. She could feel the warm, sultry air on her skin, and she wasn’t cold anymore. The air was always yellow at the farm. Golden yellow.”

“There's pathos in this familiar routine, in the sounds of homely objects touching surfaces. And in the little sigh she makes when she turns or slightly bends our unwieldy form. It's already clear to me how much of life is forgotten even as it happens. Most of it. The unregarded present spooling away from us, the soft tumble of unremarkable thoughts, the long-neglected miracle of existence. When she's no longer twenty-eight and pregnant and beautiful, or even free, she won't remember the way she set down the spoon and the sound it made on slate, the frock she wore today, the touch of her sandal's thong between her toes, the summer's warmth, the white noise of the city beyond the house walls, a short burst of birdsong by a closed window. All gone, already.”

“If you cannot hold me in your arms, then hold my memory in high regard. And if I cannot be in your life, then at least let me live in your heart.”

“So why bother investing in one's memory in the age of externalized memories? The best answer I can give is the one that I received unwittingly from EP, whose memory had been so completely lost that he could not place himself rin time or space, or relative to other people. That is: How we perceive the world and how we act in it are products of how and what we remember. We're all just a bundle of of habits shaped by our memories. And to the extent that we control our lives, we do so by gradually altering those habits, which is to say the networks or our memory. No lasting joke, invention, insight, or work of art was ever produced by an external memory. Not yet, at least. Or ability to find humour in the world, to make connections between previously unconnected notions, to create new ideas, to share in a common culture: All these essentially human acts depend on memory. Now more than ever, as the role of memory in our culture erodes at a faster pace than ever before, we need to cultivate our ability to remember. Our memories make us who we are. They are the seat of our values ad source of our character. [...] That's what Ed had been trying to impart to me from the beginning: that memory training is not just fro the sake of performing partyb tricks; it's about nurturing something profoundly and essentially human.”