#memory

When we lose one we love, our bitterest tears are called forth by the memory of hours when we loved not enough. ↗

— Maurice Maeterlinck

#bitterest #called #enough #forth #hours

I think the secret to a hoppy life is a selective memory. Remember what you are most grateful for and quickly forget what your not. ↗

— Richard Paul Evans

#forgetting-the-past #inspirational #memory #inspirational

We photographers deal in things which are continually vanishing, and when they have vanished there is no contrivance on earth can make them come back again. We cannot develop and print a memory. ↗

— Henri Cartier-Bresson

#back #cannot #come #continually #contrivance

We never really had any kind of a Christmas. This is one part where my memory fails me completely. ↗

— Frank McCourt

#christmas #completely #fails #had #kind

Saturday night is when my hair would be fixed up and that was my memory. ↗

— Jenifer Lewis

#hair #memory #night #saturday #saturday night

It is strange how we hold on to the pieces of the past while we wait for our futures. ↗

— Ally Condie

#nostalgia #past

I feel like I'm the most forgiven actress I can think of, probably because of this short memory people have! ↗

— Diane Lane

#because #feel #forgiven #i #i can

True scholarship consists in knowing not what things exist, but what they mean; it is not memory but judgment. ↗

— James Russell Lowell

#exist #judgment #knowing #mean #memory

Happiness and beauty are the worst things you can have in a life, because you never forget them. They go on and on ambushing you, presumably until you die. ↗

— M. John Harrison

#memory #beauty

My theme is memory, that winged host that soared about me one grey morning of war-time. These memories, which are my life--for we possess nothing certainly except the past--were always with me. Like the pigeons of St. Mark's, theywere everywhere, under my feet, singly, in pairs, in little honey-voiced congregations, nodding, strutting, winking, rolling the tender feathers of their necks, perching sometimes, if I stood still, on my shoulder or pecking a broken biscuit from between my lips; until, suddenly, the noon gun boomed and in a moment, with a flutter and sweep of wings, the pavement was bare and the whole sky above dark with a tumult of fowl. Thus it was that morning. These memories are the memorials and pledges of the vital hours of a lifetime. These hours of afflatus in the human spirit, the springs of art, are, in their mystery, akin to the epochs of history, when a race which for centuries has lived content, unknown, behind its own frontiers, digging, eating, sleeping, begetting, doing what was requisite for survival and nothing else, will, for a generation or two, stupefy the world; commit all manner of crimes, perhaps; follow the wildest chimeras, go down in the end in agony, but leave behind a record of new heights scaled and new rewards won for all mankind; the vision fades, the soul sickens, and the routine of survival starts again. The human soul enjoys these rare, classic periods, but, apart from them, we are seldom single or unique; we keep company in this world with a hoard of abstractions and reflections and counterfeits of ourselves -- the sensual man, the economic man, the man of reason, the beast, the machine and the sleep-walker, and heaven knows what besides, all in our own image, indistinguishable from ourselves to the outward eye. We get borne along, out of sight in the press, unresisting, till we get the chance to drop behind unnoticed, or to dodge down a side street, pause, breathe freely and take our bearings, or to push ahead, out-distance our shadows, lead them a dance, so that when at length they catch up with us, they look at one another askance, knowing we have a secret we shall never share. ↗

— Evelyn Waugh

#art