Memories Quotes - Page 246

Gardener's , like everyone else, live second by second and minute by minute. What we see at one particular moment is then and there before us. But there is a second way of seeing. Seeing with the eye of memory, not the eye of our anatomy, calls up days and seasons past and years gone by.

If not every one of these people, who were never perfect, is worthy of our love, at least their fate deserves our attention and our memory. They should talk and be talked about.

Abraham Lincoln did have intellectual instincts, a tremendous curiosity on a broad range of subjects, and a near-photographic memory for what he read. He was, at the end of the day, a politician: politics were his heaven, said William Herndon. But Lincoln did take comfort in ideas and books, more so than almost any other president, and he went to books and ideas in moments of perplexity to sort things out. Philosopher, no, but thoughtful and "surprisingly well-read" for his day.

You must have the courage to face what happened today and to live with it in your heart and to use the memory of it to grow and be strong.

I love the combination of smartness, pain, and what one might call conscious postmodern trashiness in this book: a version of the erotic full of nervous tension which animates the sensuality, and also Zimroth's feeling for words, compressed, ironic, withholding, but also 'asking for it . . . the siege, the thrill, the battle fatigue.' A profoundly urban book, of harsh memory and fantasy, set in harsher reality.

What is memory for if not to fortify and sustain?

What is the purpose of memory? Is it a trick to make sure we don't forget who we are by reminding us of who we were?

And my sister, my Lindsey, left me in her memories, where I was meant to be.

Sometimes I forget what I put in. I want to capture things in that way, where you're looking into your memory, a dream or hallucination. The characters become a mixture of archetypes, [and] that's what I like. You're trying to figure it out and your brain wants to categorize things, but it can't because of this motion. You want to solve the problem, but it never gets solved. It's like when you read a really good book and the story never leaves you.

On the mountains of memory by the world's wellsprings, in all man's eyes, where the light of life of him is on all past things, death only dies.

However, my problems with my memory are further complicated by the fact that while I don't have any recollection of things I have actually done, I have very vivid recollections of loads of things that I haven't done.

We are the sum total of our memories. Memories are the most precious things we have. Good or bad. That's what make us who we are. What would we be without them?

Food is so heavily connected to memory.

Now I don't want to take roles just for money. It's like trying on the right dress. When you go shopping for a dress, you can try to make something work 'cause you can't find the right one, but you always have that memory of the time you put on the perfect dress and you were like, "Oh, my god, I love myself in this dress! I'm excited to go out and have people see me in this!" That's the way that I'm looking at the roles that I want to do. I'm not looking for anything specific, except for something that has heart, and that I will enjoy doing that feeds my soul.

I pulled myself from his mind, day by day, piece by piece, memory by memory, until there was nothing of Ruby left to weigh him down or keep him bound to my side.

When I wrote the story ["The Cartographers"], I'd just gone through a breakup with a woman I'd loved dearly. Without this other person in my life, the memories we'd shared often felt like phantoms. Who was this person I once loved? Did she still really exist? The answer, on a metaphysical level, was that this person didn't still exist. She'd gone on to become a different person, an individual with new hopes and dreams which no longer involved me.

I came across an old story of mine that I'd written a decade ago. The main joke of the story is that a mother is telling her children about how she met their father online. The majority of memories the mother has all have to do with really funny links he sent her, a music download that she loved, etc. - and because of these superficial details she fell in love with the father. Reading it today, it's hardly a dystopian story; it's simply a realistic story about how people actually meet.

I was really interested in this ability for others to create virtual memories for us. In "The Cartographers" I explore this through Adam Woods, and the company he works for, which produces virtual memories that people can beam into their consciousness. While the technology is sci-fi, the story is also a metaphor for the way love relationships create memories in our minds.

We all end up living secret lives. We create what we are willing to admire and admiring what we shouldn't confess to the secret ofour own sin, our own insufficiency, our own sadness. We all end up taking our secrets into the world and handing them over to strangers, only to realize it's often too late to claim them back. The very nature of time passing is sad beyond words. Memories mean they're gone.

Old men, for the most part, are like old chronicles that give you dull but true accounts of times past, and are worth knowing only on that score.

Literature becomes the living memory of a nation.

Your memories become fantasies if they are not shared, and your life in all its triviality becomes a legend.

Memory narrativises itself.

I was going to be a memory when I grew up.

To begin with, poor people´s memory is less nourished than that of a rich; it has fewer landmarks in space because they seldom leave the place where they live, and fewer reference points in time throughtout lives that are grey and featureless.