#memo

And I'll dance with you in Vienna, I'll be wearing a river's disguise. The hyacinth wild on my shoulder my mouth on the dew of your thighs. And I'll bury my soul in a scrapbook, with the photographs there and the moss. And I'll yield to the flood of your beauty, my cheap violin and my cross. ↗

— Leonard Cohen

#love #memory #music #beauty

When we think of the past it's the beautiful things we pick out. We want to believe it was all like that. ↗

— Margaret Atwood

#remembrance #the-past #beauty

Travel does this: it creates space that allows thoughts and memories to intrude and assert themselves with impunity. Smells and sights, the quality of light, the honk of a horn -- can all act as touchstones when least expected. ↗

— Andrew McCarthy

#travel #courage

Sometimes, at the least opportune times, the past is an insomniac, alive and well. ↗

— Courtney Cole

#past #beauty

It's strange how memory gets twisted and pulled like taffy in its retelling, how a single event can mean something different to everyone present. ↗

— Lisa Unger

#recollection #beauty

While Dmitri, as the leader of Raphael’s Seven, could not accept such a weakness, the mortal he’d once been, the one who had loved a woman with a wide mouth and eyes of slanted brown . . . that man understood what it was to love so deeply it was a kind of beautiful madness. ↗

— Nalini Singh

#memory #beauty

I see again my schoolroom in Vyra, the blue roses of the wallpaper, the open window.… Everything is as it should be, nothing will ever change, nobody will ever die. ↗

— Vladimir Nabokov

#memory #beauty

So we don't believe that life is beautiful because we don't recall it but if we get a whiff of a long-forgotten smell we are suddenly intoxicated and similarly we think we no longer love the dead because we don't remember them but if by chance we come across an old glove we burst into tears. ↗

— Marcel Proust

#beauty

The gods weave misfortunes for men, so that the generations to come will have something to sing about.” Mallarmé repeats, less beautifully, what Homer said; “tout aboutit en un livre,” everything ends up in a book. The Greeks speak of generations that will sing; Mallarmé speaks of an object, of a thing among things, a book. But the idea is the same; the idea that we are made for art, we are made for memory, we are made for poetry, or perhaps we are made for oblivion. But something remains, and that something is history or poetry, which are not essentially different. ↗

— Jorge Luis Borges

#borges #gods #homer #mallarmé #memory

This I have known, and these have come again With echoing happiness in heart and brain; Time standing still, surrendering to me Beauty that otherwise would cease to be. ↗

— William Kean Seymour

#memory #remembrance #time #beauty