Best 1492 quotes in «memory quotes» category

Most people are not really scared of death. They are merely terrified of being taken to a mortuary and/or being buried or cremated and/or being forgotten.

Most sane human beings who have managed to attain and retain fame each uses it to dramatically increase their name’s chances of being remembered until Jesus comes back, since their heart cannot do what they consciously or unconsciously lust for, that is to say, for it to beat until Jesus returns.

Mozart liked to write letters while on the loo. He wrote, "I think it only fitting to write while shitting." This gave me the idea of, "I think it only fitting to read while ..." Who says men can't multitask?

Mr. Trask, do you think the thoughts of people suddenly become important at a given age? Do you have sharper feelings or clearer thoughts now than when you were ten? Do you see as well, hear as well, taste as vitally?

Music replays the past memories, awaken our forgotten worlds and make our minds travel.

My best memory of school was probably leaving school. Because I hated that fucking place.

My body shakes with a million different fires. Feet that look like yours warp and the corns split so you see craters of infinite variety, some pus-filled Lake Toba. The weakness in my limbs, the thick weight on my head and chest and the slow burning inside me that never reaches the skin, bring me closer to you. My afflictions bring me closer to you.

My father died suddenly, but also across the years. He was still dying, really- which meant I guess that he was still living, too.

My hate is stronger than the dimensions, stronger than memory, stronger than time. My hate is now the truest part of who I am.

My house is full of books. I suppose that I have read all of them, bar reference books and poetry collections in which I will not have read every poem. I have forgotten many, indeed most. At some point, I have emptied each of these into that insatiable vessel, the mind, and they are now lost somewhere within. If I reopen a book, there is recognition--oh yes, I've been here--but to have the contents again, familiar, new-minted, I would have to read right through. What happens to all this information, this inferno of language? Where does it go? Much, apparently, becomes irretrievable sediment; a fair amount, the significant amount, becomes that essential part of us--what we know and understand and think about above and beyond our own immediate concerns. It has become the life of the mind. What we have read makes us what we are--quite as much as what we have experienced and where we have been and who we have known. To read is to experience. I can measure out my life in books. They stand along the way like signposts: the moments of absorption and empathy and direction and enlightenment and sheer pleasure.

My memory plays me odd tricks these days [...] Age spares us nothing, old friend. Like ancient trees, we die from the top.

My memories always clutch my brain to understand the past

My memory of your casual smile This memory, like a child's bit of sweet embroidery smuggled out of an asylum

My mother had a way of accessing the energy of the people around her. There was no need to know their name, who they were or how she knew them. She didn’t recognize their surface. She went much deeper.

My own mental well-being is a noose resting on the curve of my breastbone, just waiting for some traumatic event to force the rope taut. But maybe it doesn’t have to be some life-altering event that pulls me under the tide, but rather something minor, insignificant, like a pebble thrown into the ocean of life.

My poetry has been engraved with your name And my heart is by your memory scarred

My reflections amount to a love story that is mostly made up, from memories that are mostly false, between people who were mainly not there. The things for which she was not there have her in them now more deeply because of her absence, and her effect on my way of seeing them. Anytime I note her absence from a thing, she arrives at once, as if summoned, entrenching herself more deeply than she exists in my memories of times when she was there, so that time, the sequence of what really happened, seems to curve around her.

My school-days! The silent gliding on of my existence—the unseen, unfelt progress of my life—from childhood up to youth! Let me think, as I look back upon that flowing water, now a dry channel overgrown with leaves, whether there are any marks along its course, by which I can remember how it ran.

[M]y terror of forgetting is greater than my terror of having too much to remember. Let the accumulated facts about the past continue to multiply. ... So that those who need can find that this person did live, those events really took place, this interpretation is not the only one.

My short-term factual memory can be like water; events are a brief disturbance on the surface and then it closes back up again, as if nothing ever touched it. But it’s a strange fact that my long-term memory remains strong, perhaps because it recorded events when my mind was unaffected. My emotional memory is intact too, perhaps because feelings are recorded and stored in a different place than facts. The things that happened deeper in the past, and deeper in the breast, are still there for me, under the water. I won 1,098 games, and eight national championships, and coached in four different decades. But what I see are not the numbers. I see their faces. 'Pat should get a tattoo!' The kids laughed. 'What kind should she get?' 'A heart. She should get a heart.' Little did they know. They are the tattoos.

Na minha opinião, a única coisa que podemos fazer pelos mortos é guardá-los na nossa memória.

Naked. Fatigue of the body transparent as a glass-tree. Near yourself you hear the brutal rumor of inextricable desire. Night blindly mine. You're farther gone than me. Horror of checking for you in the screams of my poem. Your name is the disease of things at midnight. They had promised me one silence. Your face is closer to me than my own. Phantom memory. How I'd love to kill you —

Names disappear, but not the faces. The faces stay with you.

Naše špatná pamět, na niž si tak hodně stěžujeme, souvisí především s nedostatkem obraznosti.

My youth is like a scab: under it there is a wound that every day leaks blood. It disfigures me.

Nature has certain mechanism to record all memories of every life being.

Nature never remembers, that’s why she’s beautiful.

Needham has announced that the former lands of Falconwell are to be included in the dowry of his eldest daughter." Shock rocked Bourne back on his heels. "Penelope?" "You know the lady?" "It's been years since I saw her last- nearly twenty of them." Sixteen. She had been there on the day he'd left Surrey for the last time, after his parents' burial, fifteen years old and slipped back to a new world with no family. She'd watched him climb into his carriage, and her serious blue gaze had not wavered in tracking his coach down the long drive away from Falconwell. She hadn't looked away until he had turned onto the main road. He knew because he'd watched her, too. She'd been his friend. When he had still believed in friends.

Never allow yourself to be defined by your past; ‘yesterday’ is just a word, not a dictionary.

Never be afraid when God brings back your past. Let your memory have its way with you. It is a minister of God bringing its rebuke and sorrow to you.

Never hide your fear because it will become your own God, hidden inside you.

Nobody remembers the moment of birth. Nobody remembers the moment of death. So between both You better do memorable things. (From: Kinderpraat)

Nobody belongs to us, except in memory.” ("Grandparenting" [1994])

Never underestimate the magic of a memory. A life full of great memories is a rich one.

Nobel Prize-winning neuroscientist Eric Kandel says we are who we are because of what we learn and what we remember. Who am I, then, if my memory is impaired?

Nod house turned into shout house. In the shout house memory said shut up. It said silence, misery said amen, the mule's head meant my stubborn lungs. . . I stood imagining I fell back dreaming, stuck tongue stuck in my jaw broke my jaw

No fim perguntei ao avô: Por que é que temos de estar encostados? Depois de o povo de Israel ter saído do Egipto deixou de ser um povo de escravos. Só um povo livre é feliz, só um povo livre tem bem estar e comodidades. É por esta razão que nos encostamos.

No. I remember. So long as I don't think about it too much, my hands and feet take over; some memory locked into muscle that my brain has nothing to do with. I know how to drive. And I'm better at it than he is.

No mark survives this place: you too will yield to unmemory.

No one really remembers anything five minutes after it happens.

No Memory happens in the past. To say this in so many words is, no doubt, to state the obvious - our memories happen now, in the madeleine- and tisane-tinctured present - but it strikes me as peculiar, still, that my recollections have so little to do with historical time.

No one can soothe my inner being like you. No one can make me look to the future with such excitement like you did. No one can understand me, fulfill me, fit me like you did." ~Emma Ranstein

No one willingly turns his thought back to the past, unless all his acts have been submitted to the censorship of his conscience, which is never deceived; he who has ambitiously coveted, proudly scorned, recklessly conquered, treacherously betrayed, greedily seized, or lavishly squandered, must needs fear his own memory.

No person can walk all alone because to walk all alone one must have no memories at all from the past!

Nos-tal-gic,’ Akira said, as though it were a word he had been struggling to find. Then he said a word in Japanese, perhaps the Japanese for ‘nostalgic.’ ‘Nos-tal-gic. It is good to be nos-tal-gic. Very important.’ ‘Really, old fellow?’ ‘Important. Very important. Nostalgic. When we nostalgic, we remember. A world better than this world we discover when we grow. We remember and wish good world come back again. So very important. Just now, I had dream. I was boy. Mother, Father, close to me. in our house.’ He fell silent and continued to gaze across the rubble. ‘Akira,’ I said, sensing that the longer this talk went on, the greater was some danger I did not wish fully to articulate. ‘We should move on. We have much to do.

No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory – this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me. ... Whence did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it? ... And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it. And all from my cup of tea.

Nostalgic longing is always for an elsewhere. Remembrance is the affirmation of what brought us here.

Nostalgia is not indulgence. Nostalgia tells us we are in the presence of imminent revelation, about to break through the present structures held together by the way we have remembered: something we thought we understood but that we are now about to fully understand, something already lived but not fully lived, issuing not from our future but from something already experienced; something that was important, but something to which we did not grant importance enough, something now wanting to be lived again, at the depth to which it first invited us but which we originally refused. Nostalgia is not an immersion in the past, nostalgia is the first annunciation that the past as we know it is coming to an end.

Nostalgia... the blessing of a merciful memory.

Not all things can be expressed through words, not all the words reflect the truth.