I have always been amazed at the way an ordinary observer lends so much more credence and attaches so much more importance to waking events than to those occurring in dreams… Man… is above all the plaything of his memory.
Two aged men that had been foes for life Met by a grave and wept – and in those tears They washed away the memory of their strife; Then wept again the loss of all those years.
A safe but sometimes chilly way of recalling the past is to force open a crammed drawer. If you are searching for anything in particular you dont find it but something falls out at the back that is often more interesting.
What is a memory? Not a storehouse not a trunk in the attic but an instrument that constantly refines the past into a narrative accessible and acceptable to oneself.
The sense organs which are limited in scope and ability randomly gather information. This partial information is arranged into judgments which are based on previous judgments which are usually based on someone elses foolish ideas. These false concepts and ideas are then stored in a highly selective memory system.
In the cellars of the night when the mind starts moving around old trunks of bad times the pain of this and the shame of that the memory of a small boldness is a hand to hold.
Music when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory; Odors when sweet violets sicken Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves when the rose is dead Are heaped for the beloveds bed; And so thy thoughts when thou art gone Love itself shall slumber on.
Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden.
I have always been amazed at the way an ordinary observer lends so much more credence and attaches so much more importance to waking events than to those occurring in dreams… Man… is above all the plaything of his memory.
Memory is the treasury and guardian of all things.
Of all the faculties of the mind memory is the first that flourishes and the first that dies.
Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it.
That is the land of lost content I see it shining plain The happy highways where I went And cannot come again.
The two offices of memory are collection and distribution.
Memory tempers prosperity mitigates adversity controls youth and delights old age.
What makes old age hard to bear is not the failing of ones faculties mental and physical but the burden of ones memories.
When Time who steals our years away Shall steal our pleasures too The memry of the past will stay And half our joys renew.
Two aged men that had been foes for life Met by a grave and wept – and in those tears They washed away the memory of their strife; Then wept again the loss of all those years.
Nothing is more responsible for the good old days than a bad memory.
Memory is the mother of all wisdom.
Memories are hunting horns whose sound dies on the wind.
The general root of superstition is that men observe when things hit and not when they miss; and commit to memory the one and pass over the other.
Memory is the greatest of artists and effaces from your mind what is unnecessary.
A safe but sometimes chilly way of recalling the past is to force open a crammed drawer. If you are searching for anything in particular you dont find it but something falls out at the back that is often more interesting.
A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot And days o lang syne?
Its a poor sort of memory that only works backwards.
Some memories are realities and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again.
The palest ink is better than the most retentive memory.
Our memories are card indexes consulted and then and then returned in disorder by authorities whom we do not control.
There is no greater sorrow Than to be mindful of the happy time In misery.
Unless we remember we cannot understand.
Leftovers in their less visible form are called memories. Stored in the refrigerator of the mind and the cupboard of the heart.
A place in thy memory dearest Is all that I claim; To pause and look back when thou hearest The sound of my name.
We can remember minutely and precisely only the things which never really happened to us.
I shall go the way of the open sea To the lands I knew before you came And the cool ocean breezes shall blow from me The memory of your name.
Every mans memory is his private literature.
No memory is ever alone; its at the end of a trail of memories a dozen trails that each have their own associations.’08-02-2010
It was one of those perfect English autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life.
The true art of memory is the art of attention.
What is a memory? Not a storehouse not a trunk in the attic but an instrument that constantly refines the past into a narrative accessible and acceptable to oneself.
The sense organs which are limited in scope and ability randomly gather information. This partial information is arranged into judgments which are based on previous judgments which are usually based on someone elses foolish ideas. These false concepts and ideas are then stored in a highly selective memory system.
A lot of people mistake a short memory for a clear conscience.
You can close your eyes to reality but not to memories.
In the cellars of the night when the mind starts moving around old trunks of bad times the pain of this and the shame of that the memory of a small boldness is a hand to hold.
The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark.
The memory represents to us not what we choose but what it pleases.
We do not remember days we remember moments.
Though time changes people it does not alter the image we have kept of them.
Nothing is so responsible for the good old days as a bad memory.
Things that were hard to bear are sweet to remember.
Music when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory; Odors when sweet violets sicken Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves when the rose is dead Are heaped for the beloveds bed; And so thy thoughts when thou art gone Love itself shall slumber on.
Not the power to remember but its very opposite the power to forget is a necessary condition for our existence.
If you want to test your memory try to recall what you were worrying about one year ago today.
Memories are like mulligatawny soup in a cheap restaurant. It is best not to stir them.
Its hard to be nostalgic when you cant remember anything.