Best 1492 quotes in «memory quotes» category

We can only speak true, talk straight and be outspoken, if we prove to be able to decrypt the veiled elements of the puzzle inside and outside our environment; describe the intricacies of the social constructions and the emotional sensitivities; analyze the feasible contingencies and practical options; arbitrate and come to sensible conclusions; and invent pragmatic proposals and equitable solutions. (“Mutilated memory”)

We cannot forget those we love. They shape our lives for ever, by their absence as much as by their presence.

We cannot recall our dreams, they cannot come back to us. If a dream comes – but what sort of coming is a dream's? Through what night does it make its way? If it comes to us, it does so only by way of forgetfulness, a forgetfulness which is not only censorship or simply repression. We dream without memory, in such a way that the dream of any particular night is no doubt a fragment of a response to an immemorial dying, barred by desire’s repetitiousness. There is no stop, there is no interval between dreaming and waking. In this sense, it is possible to say: never, dreamer, can you awake (nor, for that matter, are you able to be addressed thus, summoned). The dream is without end, waking is without beginning; neither one nor the other ever reaches itself. Only dialectical language relates them to each other in view of a truth.

We carry our wounds and perhaps even worse, our capacity to wound, forward with us. If we learn not only to tell our stories but to listen to what our stories tell us ... we are doing the work of memory.

We communed together a moment, one with the other—I was deeply fascinated. At our first encounter I am sure I had a nebulous presentiment that I would one day go to it in spite of my hesitation, in spite of all the efforts put forth to hold me back,—and the emotion that overwhelmed me in the presence of the sea was not only one of fear, but I felt also an inexpressible sadness, and I seemed to feel the anguish of desolation, bereavement and exile. With downcast mien, and with hair blown about by the wind, I turned and ran home. I was in the extreme haste to be with my mother; I wished to embrace her and to cling close to her; I desired to be with her so that she might console me for the thousand indefinite, anticipated sorrows that surged through my heart at the sight of those green waters, so vast and so deep.

We cross from memory into imagination with only a vague awareness of change.

We do not remember days, we remember moments. -Cesare Pavese

We enshrine things to memory very differently than we experience them in real time. The psychologist Daniel Kahneman has coined a couple of terms to make the distinction. He talks about the "experiencing self" versus the "remembering self.

,,,we forget our good actions only slowly, and in fact never truly forget them.

We have seen that there are two misconceptions involved in the myth that memory is a thing. One is that memory is a thing (a tangible structure rather than an abstract process) and the other is that memory is a thing (one memory rather than many memories).

We live in a world of disposable memory, nothing's built to last, not even shame.

We paw at nostalgia even before we hit twenty, wanting a holiday that never happened, a wholesomeness that could not survive in the wild.

We photographers deal in things which are continually vanishing, and when they have vanished there is no contrivance on earth which can make them come back again. We cannot develop and print a memory.

We see everything you all forget. All the happiness, all the pain, everything that simply slips away.

We take gingko to sharpen our memories. We could be memorizing song lyrics instead.

We try so hard to make these little time capsules. Memories string up just so, like holiday lights, casting the perfect glow in the left tones. But picking and choosing what to look at, what to put on display- that's not the true nature of remembering. Memory is a mean thing, slicing at you from the harshest angles, dipping your consciousness into the wrong colors again and again. A moment of humiliation, or devastation, or absolute rage, to be rewound and replayed, spinning a thread that wraps around the brain, knotting itself into something of a noose. It won't exactly kill you, but it makes you feel the squeeze of every horrible moment. How do you stop it? How do you work the mind free?

We want so badly to be happy – to live the kinds of lives that we always hoped we’d live – that we give gifts to ourselves by remembering things not as they were, but as we wish they were.

What a gulf between the self which experiences and the self which describes experience.

What broke your heart so bad That you had to close every door, That you say you have a dark soul And can't utter the word 'love' anymore?

What drives me is the fear of forgetting the stories. I don't feel threatened: I see a darkness preparing to fall upon them. Write ... write, I say to myself, or everything will whirl into forgetfulness. Write so the thread won't be severed ... a thousand stories are too few. So the flow won't be broken, so the lamps over the desks won't go out. Write, or you'll be without a past, nothing but a will-less plaything of bureaucracy. You'll lie stored in their databases, retrievable, a calculation, an accounting factor, just part of a sum whose loss was factored in from the beginning ... you'll be cannon fodder.

Whatever I learned, Whatever I knew, Seems like those faded years of childhood that flew, Away in some dilemma, Always in some confusion, The purpose of this life, Seems like an illusion!

What happened to us? It was a question that interested her. Most people seemed to believe that they were experts of their own life story. They had a set of memories that they strung like beads, and this necklace told a sensible tale. But she suspected that most of these stories would fall apart under strict examination--that, in fact, we were only peeping through a keyhole of our lives, and the majority of the truth, the reality of what happened to us, was hidden. Memories were no more solid than dreams...What happened to us? She drew smoke, considering the question. Was it possible that we would never really know? What if we were not, actually, the curators of our own lives?

What I'm feeling, I think, is joy. And it's been some time since I've felt that blinkered rush of happiness, This might be one of those rare events that lasts, one that'll be remembered and recalled as months and years wind and ravel. One of those sweet, significant moments that leaves a footprint in your mind. A photograph couldn't ever tell its story. It's like something you have to live to understand. One of those freak collisions of fizzing meteors and looming celestial bodies and floating debris and one single beautiful red ball that bursts into your life and through your body like an enormous firework. Where things shift into focus for a moment, and everything makes sense. And it becomes one of those things inside you, a pearl among sludge, one of those big exaggerated memories you can invoke at any moment to peel away a little layer of how you felt, like a lick of ice cream. The flavor of grace.

What is a man but another man's memory

What is the difference between a dream and its memory?

. . . what is thought now, and held to be universal truth, was not thought then, or true of that time.

What larks we had," said James. "When?" "When we were young." I could not recall any larks I had had with James. I poured out the wine and we sat in silence.

What made Olive the saddest about the Gardners was that everyone wanted to be enshrined in someone’s memory. It was the only way of living on after death, really: in the minds of loved ones. Memories were the only things that made aging bearable, a way of reverting to better, simpler days.

What makes and experience a memory is when we share with someone, the emotions we felt

What made some words scarier than others, some sounds too dangerous to be said? Memory. It wasn’t the words themselves that had power but the memories that stuck to words like ticks on deer, draining and infecting them. If you shut down your memory and ignored the knowing-self inside you, you could say anything.

What memories can you dig up that create warm feelings? It could be a childhood memory, something recent, a place, a person, or just a special moment. Take time to savor and reflect on these memories, using all of your 5 senses. These are the real treasures in life!

What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones, The labor of an age in pilèd stones, Or that his hallowed relics should be hid Under a star-y-pointing pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?

What once was and was good ought not to be cast aside.

What spares us is memory,” he said. “It’s what makes us worth saving. However low we sink, whatever promise we no longer fulfill, we tell our stories. That’s why you’re so important, Charlie. You’re a guardian of our national memory.

What was our life like? I almost don't remember now. Though I remember it, the space of time it occupied. And I remember it fondly.

What went wrong? That is the question, and not "To be or not to be," for all of Shakespeare.

What you remembered? Probably. More or less. Different people remember things differently, and you'll not get any two people to remember anything the same, whether they were there or not. You stand two of you lot next to each other, and you could be continents away for all it means anything.

What you see is not what wee se. What you see is distracted by memory, by being who you are, all this time, for all these years.

When all you have is the memory of a thing, all you can think about is how the thing is gone.

When all is lost, there is still a memory.

When a memory fails to appear, it seems as though the time when it was created did not really exist, and maybe that is true. Time itself is nothing; only the experience of it is something. When that dies, it assumes the form of a denial, the symbol of mortality, what you have already lost before you lose everything. When his friend had said something similar to his father, his response had been, "If you had to retain everything, you’d explode. There’s simply not enough space for it all. Forgetting is like medicine; you have to take it at the right time.

When a Truthsayer's gifted by the drug, she can look many places in her memory - in her body's memory. We look down so many avenues of the past... but only feminine avenues... Yet there's a place no Truthsayer can see. We are repelled by it, terrorized. It is said a man will come one day and find in the gift of the drug his inward eye. He will look where we cannot - into both feminine and masculine pasts... Many men have tried the drug... so many, but none has succeeded." "They tried and failed, all of them?" "They tried and died.

Whenever I look back To the art Once I craved I wanna punch Square in face If only I'm allowed To do so...

Whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul, I shall recall the memory of warm, sunny, late summer afternoons like this one, and be comforted greatly.

Whenever it rains, I remember him, not as a tear that hails down as a raindrop, but as a God of fertility. As, every time I remember him, his memories conceive a baby of emotions in me!

When everyone was busy playing their cards, guessing others hands and counting chips, we took a deck and a bottle and a corner table. At the end of that dreamy night, rattles stopped, bottles emptied, everyone gone. But there on our table was this beautiful house erected of cards, stories, hopes and secrets. Something we built quite unknowingly. She looked at me with starry eyes and whispered – “Can we keep it?” The curious inn keeper, from a distance answered – “No”. She made a face and looked at me and I said – “We shall come back tomorrow and make a new one everyday”. And we never did.

When he looked back at the menu as an old man, it brought back everything; the food, the wine, the private dining room, the pride he took in being able to pay for such a dinner, the convergence of his life as a writer and his life as an oenophile, the conviviality that grew as the night continued and everyone had a little too much to drink but not enough to impair the quality of the conversation, some of which, I feel sure, was about the wines themselves.

When I am away, I am with it. When I am with it, I am away.

When I first began to write, I had been a child for most of my life, and my childhood memories were vivid and potent, and the forces that shaped me, Most of them have grown fainter with time, and whenever I write one down, I give it away: it ceases to have the shadowy life of memory and becomes fixed in letters: it ceases to be mine; it loses that mobile unreliability of the live.

When I go out by the gateway, taking the road I drove along that first time I picked up Lotte for the ball, how very different it all is! It is all over, all of it! There is not a hint of the world that once was, not one bulse-beat of those past emotions. I feel like a ghost returning to the burnt-out ruins of the castle he built in his prime as a prince, which he adorned with magnificent splendours and then, on his deathbed, but full of hope, left to his beloved son