I fear it is my lot, to bide my days in hunchbacked thought, to find what I forgot.
memory introspection
It's strange how memory gets twisted and pulled like taffy in its retelling, how a single event can mean something different to everyone present.
memory recollection
What he wanted was not just to hear about Hailsham, but to remember Hailsham, just like it had been his own childhood. He knew he was close to completing and so that's what he was doing: getting me to describe things to him, so they'd really sink in, so that maybe during those sleepless nights, with the drugs and the paint and the exhaustion, the line would blur between what were my memories and what were his.
memory
Memories are nice little possessions. As long as you don't ignore the present when you take them out to play.
It was one of those strange moments that came to him rarely, but never left. A moment that stamped itself on heart and brain, instantly recallable in every detail, for all of his life. There was no telling what made these moments different from any other, though he knew them when they came. He had seen sights more gruesome and more beautiful by far, and been left with no more than a fleeting muddle of their memory. But these-- the still moments, as he called them to himself-- they came with no warning, to print a random image of the most common things inside his brain, indelible.
When the cold comes to New England it arrives in sheets of sleet and ice. In December, the wind wraps itself around bare trees and twists in between husbands and wives asleep in their beds. It shakes the shingles from the roofs and sifts through cracks in the plaster. The only green things left are the holly bushes and the old boxwood hedges in the village, and these are often painted white with snow. Chipmunks and weasels come to nest in basements and barns; owls find their way into attics. At night, the dark is blue and bluer still, as sapphire of night.
memory color winter picture cold new-england
We live with such easy assumptions, don't we? For instance, that memory equals events plus time. But it's all much odder than this. Who was it said that memory is what we thought we'd forgotten? And it ought to be obvious to us that time doesn't act as a fixative, rather as a solvent. But it's not convenient--- it's not useful--- to believe this; it doesn't help us get on with our lives; so we ignore it.
To forget is the secret of eternal youth. One grows old only through memory. There's much too little forgetting.
youth memory
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!
I thought you had forgotten me.I have spent my life remembering you.
After all, memory may be the only thing on earth we can truly manipulate to serve us, so we don't have to look back at ourselves in the receding past and think, What an arsehole!
.. Or like an old friend one has known too well and doesn't want to see.
Dates are hard to remember because they consist of figures; figures are monotonously unstriking in appearance, and they don't take hold, they form no pictures, and so they give the eye no chance to help. Pictures are the thing. Pictures can make dates stick.
The city, however, does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a hand
memory city
She knew with suddeness and ease that this moment would be with her always, within hand's reach of memory. She doubted if they all sensed it - they had seen the world - but even George was silent for a minute as they looked, and the scene, the smell, even the sound of the band playing a faintly recognisable movie theme, was locked forever in her, and she was at peace.
memory nostalgia carrie
A pleasure is full grown only when it is remembered.
memory pleasure
The important thing for the remembering author is not what he experienced, but the weaving of his memory, the Penelope work of recollection. Or should one call it, rather, the Penelope work of forgetting?.. And is not his work of spontaneous recollection, in which remembrance is the woof and forgetting the warp, a counterpart to Penelope's work rather than its likeness? For here the day unravels what the night has woven. When we awake each morning, we hold in our hands, usually weakly and loosely, but a few fringes of the tapestry of a lived life, as loomed for us by forgetting. However, with our purposeful activity and, even more, our purposive remembering each day unravels the web and the ornaments of forgetting.
memory forgetting
To feel successful, you must be able to be honest about the things that are really important to you.
memory brain
In the cellars of the night, when the mind starts moving around old trunks of bad times, the pain of this and the same of that, the memory of a small boldness is a hand to hold.
Let the past be content with itself, for man needs forgetfulness as well as memory
memory past forgetfulness
I'll just tell you what I remember because memory is as close as I've gotten to building my own time machine.
memory time-travel
Excellent memories are often coupled with feeble judgments.
memory judgement
The hippo of recollection stirred in the muddy waters of the mind.
funny humor memory metaphor recollection
Our nemesis is time, against which we have a single ally, memory, and even it betrays us.
time memory betrayal
Here's to many more firsts and many more great memories.
memory first
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