I'm weird; I have a very strange emotional memory. I really somehow hold on to even passing moments with people.
Funny how a melody sounds like a memory.
And overpowered by memory Both men gave way to grief. Priam wept freely For man - killing Hector, throbbing, crouching Before Achilles' feet as Achilles wept himself, Now for his father, now for Patroclus once again And their sobbing rose and fell throughout the house.
There is a secret bond between slowness and memory, between speed and forgetting.
Life is but a memory Happened long ago. Theatre full of sadness For a long forgotten show.
Only a philosopher's mind grows wings, since its memory always keeps it as close as possible to those realities by being close to which the gods are divine.
I write in a rush of memory.
The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark
NOW is the only reality. All else is either memory or imagination.
Memory is not like a container that gradually fills up, it is more like a tree growing hooks onto which memories are hung. Everything you remember is another set of hooks on which more new memories can be attached. So the capacity of memory keeps on growing. The more you know, the more you can know.
Those who, in debate, appeal to their qualifications, argue from memory, not from understanding.
My earliest memory is of the best Christmas gift ever, a toy train. I remember riding that thing all through our house.
A book is more than a verbal structure or series of verbal structures; it is the dialogue it establishes with its reader and the intonation it imposes upon his voice and the changing and durable images it leaves in his memory. A book is not an isolated being: it is a relationship, an axis of innumerable relationships.
Memory belongs to the imagination.
The mind must be trained, rather than the memory.
Guitar is just something I can do. So much of it now is muscle memory, just instinct.
I kept it for myself like a keepsake, as if sharing the memory might lead to its dissipation.
Whatever became of the moment when one first knew about death? There must have been one. A moment. In childhood. When it first occurred to you that you don’t go on forever. It must have been shattering, stamped into one’s memory. And yet, I can’t remember it.
Memory, the warder of the brain.
It was all I had, all I've ever had, the only currency, the only proof that I was alive. Memory.