Why don't you like the foods I like?" he asks sometimes. "Why don't you like the foods I make?" I answer.
Remember thee? Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat in this distracted globe. Remember thee?
...there was something in the texture of the weave that felt happy: the echo of a memory so far down in his soul it was all emotion, a burst of colour and warmth, adrift from time and place.
Don't go to eighth grade...don't talk about something old...don't bring up old memories that have nothing to do with who we are now. THIS is all that matters! TODAY.
I'll just tell you what I remember because memory is as close as I've gotten to building my own time machine.
Where did you live before you came here?" I asked. "The moon," he said smoothly. "We left because the place had no atmosphere.
To be ignorant of what happened before you were born is to live the life of a child forever. For what is a man's life, unless woven into the life of our ancestors by the memory of past deeds?
Words are so very difficult to take back and forget. Memories fade with time, but words never do. They linger in our minds, our hearts, haunting us.
But sometimes the memories feel so real, so visceral, so personal, that I confuse them with my own.
If I shut everything else out and filled the room with memories, the past could become the present, and I could live there, with him. I would never leave.
To the woman in the restaurant today, the doll in her arms was the real child who still lived in her memories.
My definition of man is a cooking animal. The beasts have memory, judgement, and the faculties and passions of our minds in a certain degree; but no beast is a cook.
I sat in the sun on a bench; the animal within me licking the chops of memory; the spiritual side a little drowsed, promising subsequent penitence, but not yet moved to begin.
The Devil can quote scripture, after all. And monsters can say "please" and "thank you" same as any mother's son.
A familiar name on its own, however, does not carry its bearer far unless the talent is there, and the will to work.
Time becomes meaningless without memory and we humans have a unique consciousness that allows us to live in the past or the future, which is actually more of a curse than a useful superpower.
Memories lie slumbering within us for months and years, quietly proliferating, until they are woken by some trifle and in some strange way blind us to life.
A weapon needs a wielder; it should not be permitted to start its own fights." "You are not my wielder; you are naught, a forgotten ghost, not even a memory." "Maybe, but you are still a weapon.
Our memory fragments don't have any coherence until they're imagined in words. Time is a property of language, of syntax, and tense.
To remain vital, culture must be renewed in the minds of the members of every generation. Outsource memory, and culture withers.
A picture's worth a thousand words. But a single word can make you think of over a thousand pictures in your mind, over a thousand moments, a thousand memories.
