By the grey woods, by the swamp, where the toad and newt encamp, by the dismal tarns and pools, where dwell the Gouls. By each spot the most unholy, by each nook most melancholy, there the traveller meets, aghast, sheeted memories of the Past. Shrouded forms that start and sigh, as they pass the wanderer by. White-robed forms of friends long given; In agony, to the Earth - and Heaven.
Memory is the personal journalism of the soul.
A writer who has never explored words, who has never searched, seeded, sieved, sifted through his knowledge and memory. . . dictiona ries, thesaurus, poems, favorite paragraphs, to find the right word, is like someone owning a gold mine who has never mined it.
Memory weaves and traps us at the same time according to a scheme in which we do not participate: we should never speak of our memory, for it is anything but ours; it works on its own terms, it assists us while deceiving us or perhaps deceives up to assist us.
Background vocals during her song "I Hope You Dance". . . . . 'Time is a wheel in constant motion always, rolling us along. Tell me who wants to look back on their years and wonder, where those years have gone. '
At the time I could no more believe my eyes than I can now trust my memory.
One of my strongest memories is my father playing bongos in the living room in Detroit listening to Motown radio. He was this skinny white bald guy, but he was really moved by blues and Motown and funk.
I'm sorry to see that again we are turning to the courts for decisions that concern ethics. I think theologians and ethicists would better guide us in such matters,. . . If my memory serves me well, more than a decade ago The Episcopal Church said euthanasia or the intentional shortening of an individual's life, by lethal doses of drugs or otherwise, was not acceptable.
I think, as human beings, we at times overvalue the intellect and we undermine the body. I don't mean a body externally and the shape of a body. I mean the intelligence of a body, the memories that a body can store, how a body feels emotion, and how a body processes emotion.
We enjoy this illusion of continuity and we call it memory. Which explains, perhaps, why our worst fear isn't the end of life, but the end of memories
The memory fades, and I’m left hanging on to the ghosts of his words.
You must find the strength to open the wounds, stick your hands inside, pull out the core of the pain that is holding you in your past, the memories, and make peace with them.
Films, like memories, seem to re-shoot themselves over the years, reflecting our latest needs and obsessions. In many cases they can change completely, and reveal unexpected depths and shallows. Will Four Weddings and a Funeral be seen one day as a vicious social satire? Could Jaws become as tearful and sentimental as Bambi?
That's because only a real artist knows the actual anatomy of the terrible or the physiology of fear - the exact sort of lines and proportions that connect up with latent instincts or hereditary memories of fright, and the proper colour contrasts and lighting effects to stir the dormant sense of strangeness.
My earliest memory is of feeling different. My parents told me that I wasn't like other children.
Whatever is unnamed, undepicted in images, whatever is omitted from biography, censored in collections of letters, whatever is misnamed as something else, made difficult-to-come-by, whatever is buried in the memory by the collapse of meaning under an inadequate or lying language - this will become, not merely unspoken, but unspeakable.
Memory is the scribe of the soul.
The true story. . . is the realization that no time in your life is ever perfect, that even the best memories have cracks you might not see.
The best thing is to draw men and women from the nude and thus fix in the memory by constant exercise the muscles of the torso, back, legs, arms and knees, with bones underneath.
I am reading Jonson's verses to the memory of Shakespeare; an insolent, sparing, and invidious panegyric.