Memory
Sometimes I used to think that one day i should wake up, and all that had been would be over. Forgotten, sunk, drowned. Nothing was sure - not even memory.
Injuries may be forgiven, but not forgotten.
Without memory, there is no culture. Without memory, there would be no civilization, no society, no future.
So long as the memory of certain beloved friends lives in my heart, I shall say that life is good.
There is no man, however wise, who has not at some period of his youth said things, or lived in a way the consciousness of which is so unpleasant to him in later life that he would gladly, if he could, expunge it from his memory.
Memory is the treasure house of the mind wherein the monuments thereof are kept and preserved.
Romance like a ghost escapes touching; it is always where you are not, not where you are. The interview or conversation was prose at the time, but it is poetry in the memory.
The last four years have not diluted the memory or weakened the resolve of our citizens. Four years later, our hearts still hurt for the families whose loved ones were murdered that day.
No memory is ever alone; it's at the end of a trail of memories, a dozen trails that each have their own associations.
Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us.
We can invent only with memory.
No trace of slavery ought to mix with the studies of the freeborn man. No study, pursued under compulsion, remains rooted in the memory.
Memory has a spottiness, as if the film was sprinkled with developer instead of immersed in it.
Each day of our lives we make deposits in the memory banks of our children.
The funniest memory that I can recall about my school days has to be one incident that involved unfinished homework for numerous days. I didn't do any of my homework for days and days at a stretch, and kept stalling my teacher that I was extremely unwell and was under heavy medication.
Time and memory are true artists; they remould reality nearer to the heart's desire.
Happiness is nothing more than good health and a bad memory.
There is no pain so great as the memory of joy in present grief.
When I played the Sahara Hotel in Las Vegas on New Year's Eve, I got to bring Wiley, my 85-pound black lab. He's responsible for my favorite New Year's memory of all: At the end of the show, he ran onstage and then out across all the tables in the showroom, sending champagne glasses and gamblers flying.
The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.
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