#memo

Eran gentes de vidas lentas, a las cuales no se les veía volverse viejas, ni enfermarse ni morir, sino que iban desvaneciéndose poco a poco en su tiempo, volviéndose recuerdos, brumas de otra época, hasta que los asimilaba el olvido. ↗

— Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez

#memory #death

At the point of her death, I felt a particular pang, but I can’t remember now. I tried to recall it earlier but could not. I remember thinking it wasn’t worth remembering, but I don’t remember what was so unforgettable and unimportant as to ascribe the label of “forgettable.” If it was all the way forgettable, I wouldn’t have dwelled on it, and if it was really important, I would have remembered. So it must have been an in the middle thought, closer to forgettable, but at least worth pondering its merits for a moment. ↗

— Jarod Kintz

#memory #death

I answer the heroic question, 'Death, where is thy sting?' with 'It is in my heart and mind and memories. ↗

— Maya Angelou

#heartache #memories #death

It is as if people refused to leave their dead alone, forced them back into the light, made them keep their composure even in death. ↗

— Bernhard Schlink

#memories #death

We must keep in mind that only a part of memory can be translated into the language-based packets of information people use to tell their life stories to others. Learning to be open to many layers of communication is a fundamental part of getting to know another person's life. ↗

— Daniel J. Siegel

#language #memory #neuropsychology #communication

What if, instead of being afraid of even talking about death, we saw our lives in some ways as preparation for it. What if we were taught to ponder it and reflect on it and talk about it and enter it and rehearse it and try it on?What if, rather than being cast out and defined by some terminal category, you were identified as someone in the middle of a transformation that could deepen your soul, open your heart, and all the while-even if and particularly when you were dying-you would be supported by and be part of a community? ↗

— Eve Ensler

#death

The sudden loss of her father was like living with a wound that would never heal, yet her memories of him were fading more and more every day. ↗

— Frank Beddor

#daughter #death #father #loss #memories

Die while I can still remember who I am, who I used to be. ↗

— Tan Twan Eng

#memory-loss #death

Discussing it later, many of us felt we suffered a mental dislocation at that moment, which only grew worse through the course of the remaining deaths. The prevailing symptom of this state was an inability to recall any sound. Truck doors slammed silently; Lux's mouth screamed silently; and the street, the creaking tree limbs, the streetlight clicking different colors, the electric buzz of the pedestrian crossing box - all these usually clamorous voices hushes, or had begun shrieking at a pitch too high for us to hear, though they sent chills up our spines. Sound returned only once Lux had gone. Televisions erupted with canned laughter. Fathers splashed, soaking aching backs. ↗

— Jeffrey Eugenides

#silence #death

I am an old man, and I am dying...Will you remember me, Jacob?" I promise, one day, I will join you, Mr. Gold." Mr. Gold's laughter sounded like a trumpet and brought light to the corners of the room. ↗

— Noah Benshea

#death #end #memory #death