No Memory Quotes
I have woken up inside one of my own memories. I am really here, yet I know I am not.
You’re not the same. You’re not supposed to be the same. You’re supposed to be different. This isn’t something you will ever forget.
Our memories are like a city: we tear some structures down, and we use the rubble of the old to raise up the new ones.
Our most potent memories include the taste and smells of foods we enjoyed as a child in part because it reminds us of who fed us a meal.
Life is merely a series of moments and is in fact an unflinching serial killer, since it kills steadily each moment one after the other. Memory is the only survivor. (“Just for a moment”)
It is the touch of a lover's arms that I so desperately crave, not the memories of a love no longer mine.
The first time he saw her she reminded him of a distant memory of falling from a height.
The thing is, memory is about trust. We have to trust that what we remember is fact. And we have to trust what other people remember for things we never saw.
Memory was a slippery thing—slick moss on an unstable slope—and it was ever so easy to lose one’s footing and fall
What was the exact percentage of this day that had already slipped away?
People who were gone only lived on in your memory if you had memories. Why hadn't she held on tighter?
I believe there are visions that come to us only in memory, in retrospect.
Life, he knew, had meaning and was fully possessed only as it was remembered and reshaped.
Once she was gone, every memory was suddenly precious, even the bad ones, even the times I was irritated with her, or she was irritated with me. Then it seemed a luxury to be irritated.
You broke the chain, Luna. Of all his victims, you were the only one that ever walked away and he hasn’t forgotten.
I write to prove that we lived. I write both to remember and to let go. I write because I can't stop, not until this horrible story of ours is over and we're safe at home.
The more emotional you are in a situation, the more memories you’ll have of that situation in the long run.
The weapon of memory, turned on the self, is an apocalyptic sword.
He felt his heart was going to explode, his body burned while his mind tried to reconstitute the ashes of who he once had been.
There is a magic in distance. Look back at the golden lamp-lit rooms of your home from the road of your life, and it all for a moment is exactly how you hoped it would be: warm, peaceful, safe.
Where would we be without it, memory? Well, it'll never die here. Never in this country. We feed it too well.
The human brain has a marvelous capacity to screen and sort experience, protecting itself against the unbearable.
I have only to glance over my shoulder for all those years to drop away and I see it behind me again, the ravine, rising all green and black through the saplings, a picture that will never leave me.
The fact is that I hate this city. I've hated it so long I can hardly remember feeling any other way about it.
The ceilings had set off a ghostly echo, giving all that desperate hilarity the quality of a memory even as I sat listening to it, memories of things I'd never known.
Memories of one's past are tainted. There are no truths to be found in them.
I can't remember what I really felt. Maybe nothing happened, maybe these emotions I remember are not the right emotions.
Marina wouldn't want to be remembered because she dead. She would want to be remembered because she's good.
Touching him is familiar and unfamiliar. We have been here before. Also we have never been here before.
But, of course, memory and responsibility are strangers. They're foreign to each other. Memory always goes its own way quite regardless.
Now when the flowers are in full bloom, It is the ashes from the past that hidden loom.
But the lost one is with you.Her tenderness strengthens you, Her gaiety uplifts you, Her honor purifies you.More than memory, The lost one is found.
Nothing about these times makes any sense. Nothing. Putting it to words only makes it sound too simple.
If we could imagine, while we live them, to what mundane moments nostalgia manages to stick itself...
I know what success means to me – it is when you look back at your life and the memories make you smile. That’s what success is to me
Is that what eternity is for, to muck over a lifetime's minutiae? Who could have imagined that one would have forever to remember each moment of life down to its tiniest component?
Memory is a wilful dog. It won't be summoned or dismissed but it cannot survive without you. It can sustain you or feed on you. It visits when it is hungry, not when you are.
... Without memory how will you ever find your way back to where you came from?
Memory is the faculty of absolution. Men developed memories to ease their disquiet over things they did as men. The deep past is the only innocence and therefore necessary to retain.
