What is on that memory stick, if you don’t mind me asking?” She was following him back into his apartment when he asked, and realized she still clutched it. “Something I never want to see again.
Both those taking snaps and documentary photographers, however, have not understood 'information.' What they produce are camera memories, not information, and the better they do it, the more they prove the victory of the camera over the human being.
The color palette is confined to that of a Gustave Dore' engraving, greys and blacks, and subtle shadings of these rendered in harrowing crosshatches and highlighted with sudden glaring areas of nothingness, like splotches of vitiligo sent to haunt t...
And like an aviator who rolls painfully along the ground until, abruptly, he breaks away from it, I felt myself being slowly lifted towards the silent peaks of memory.
In that moment, hell may have ascended, Or heaven may have descended only to save me and prove, What I carry is an exaggerated memory of an imagined beautiful love. This love is tainted with treachery; it will be my doom.
He'd read once that in everyone's life there was somebody who touched a spot so deep, so precious, that the mind always retreated, in time of need, to that cherished place, seeking comfort within memories that never seemed to disappoint.
The only way we could remember would be by constant re-reading, for knowledge unused tends to drop out of mind. Knowledge used does not need to be remembered; practice forms habits and habits make memory unnecessary. The rule is nothing; the applicat...
People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation...
Happiness is found in the simplest of things. Happiness is found in gratitude, in a kept promise, in a good conversation, in love, in friendship, in an achieved goal, in a fond memory; in all the simple magnificence of life.
I just can’t do it anymore. It’s too painful. It doesn’t mean I’m over you, it means I’m not going to waste the rest of my life being haunted by your memory.
The memory of the previous nights fun and games rose again. Hell this whole week had been weird. With the attack at the boat launch being the shit flavored ice cream on top of the crazy pie.
I have lived through an eventful year, yet understand no more of it than a babe in arms. Of all the people of this town I am the one least fitted to write a memorial. Better the blacksmith with his cries of rage and woe.
I also know that I was not the only seeker of the Holy Grail. One day, somebody will be worthy enough. All that is left for me are my memories—the weekend in Faro, when I was so close to it and so happy and so in love.
It had felt as if I were truly awake for the first time, true knowledge running like ice in my blood. The memory exhilirated me for a moment, then left me with a broken cord of loss.
Language does this to our memories— simplifies, solidifies, codifies, mummifies. An oft -told story is like a photograph in a family album; eventually, it replaces the moment it was meant to capture.
He leaned in close and spoke low. "Wow, I don't know what the hell I did to put that look on your face, but you need to write it down so I can commit it to memory.
Simply touching a difficult memory with some slight willingness to heal begins to soften the holding and tension around it. (74)
Memory is the 'filling cabinet' of the brain wherein is stored all thought impulses, all conscious experiences, and all sensations which reach the brain through the five physical senses.
I hid Mrs. Frozenwater’s body in the ice cube trays in my freezer. Better to keep her there than let her memory thaw out and evaporate. Scotch on the rocks, anyone?
I grew up in a family that despised displays of strong emotion, rage in particular. We stewed. We sulked. When arguments did occur, they were full-scale conniptions, and we regarded them as family failings. Afterward, we withdrew from one another and...
The general root of superstition : namely, that men observe when things hit, and not when they miss; and commit to memory the one, and forget and pass over the other.
