I could tell you it's the heart, but what is really killing him is loneliness. Memories are worse than bullets.
I could tell you it's the heart, but what is really killing him is loneliness. Memories are worse than bullets.
I leaned over to cover him with the blanket he had been promising to give away to charity for years, and I kissed his forehead, as if by doing so I could protect him from the invisible threads that kept him away from me, from that tiny apartment, and from my memories. As if I believed that with that kiss I could deceive time and convince it to pass us by, to return some other day, some other life.
Memories are worse than bullets.
Nothing feeds forgetfulness better than war.... We all keep quiet and they try to convince us that what we've seen, what we've done, what we've learned about ourselves and about others, is an illusion, a passing nightmare. Wars have no memory, and nobody has the courage to understand them until there are no voices left to tell what happened, ultil the moment comes when we no longer reconize them and they return, with another face and another name, to devour what they left behind.
Wars have no memory, and nobody has the courage to understand them until there are no voices left to tell what happened,
We'll leave now, so that this moment will remain a perfect memory...let it be our song and think of me every time you hear it.
When I awoke it was daylight. The inside of my tent was coated in a curious flaky rime, which I realized after a moment was all of my nighttime snores, condensed and frozen and pasted to the fabric, as if into a scrapbook of respiratory memories.
And now listen carefully. You in others-this is your soul. This is what you are. This is what your consciousness has breathed and lived on and enjoyed throughout your life-your soul, your immortality, your life in others. And what now? You have always been in others and you will remain in others. And what does it matter to you if later on that is called your memory? This will be you-the you that enters the future and becomes a part of it.
Memory plays tricks. Memory is another word for story, and nothing is more unreliable.
I cannot tell you what it is that guides us in this life; but for me, I fell toward the Chairman just as a stone must fall toward the earth. When I cut my lip and met Mr. Tanaka, when my mother died and I was cruelly sold, it was all like a stream that falls over rocky cliffs before it can reach the ocean. Even now that he is gone I have him still, in the richness of my memories.
Memory was that woman on the train. Insane in the way she sifted through dark things in a closet and emerged with the most unlikely ones - a fleeting look, a feeling. The smell of smoke. A windscreen wiper. A mother's marble eyes. Quite sane in the way she left huge tracts of darkness veiled. Unremembered.
Smells, like music, hold memories. She breathed deep, and bottled it up for posterity.
I sit quietly and think about my mom. It's funny how memory erodes, If all I had to work from were my childhood memories, my knowledge of my mother would be faded and soft, with a few sharp memories standing out.
Desires, memories, fears, passions form labyrinths in which we lose and find and then lose ourselves again.
It wasn't that I forgot Hanna. But at a certain point the memory of her stopped accompanying me wherever I went. She stayed behind, the way a city stays behind as a train pulls out of the station. It's there, somewhere behind you, and you could go back and make sure of it. But why should you?
Some other memories of the funeral have stuck in my mind. The old boy's face, for instance, when he caught up with us for the last time, just outside the village. His eyes were streaming with tears, of exhaustion or distress, or both together. But because of the wrinkles they couldn't flow down. They spread out, crisscrossed, and formed a smooth gloss on the old, worn face.
God isn't the son of Memory; He's the son of Immediate Experience. You can't worship a spirit in spirit, unless you do it now. Wallowing in the past may be good literature. As wisdom, it's hopeless. Time Regained is Paradise Lost, and Time Lost is Paradise Regained. Let the dead bury their dead. If you want to live at every moment as it presents itself, you've got to die to every other moment.
And my sister, my Lindsey, left me in her memories, where I was meant to be.
And now I have to stop. Because every time I remember this, I have to cry a little by myself. I don't know why something that made me so happy then feels so sad now. Maybe that is the way it is with the best memories.
The early years he had spent building Nansei were like a hurricane in his memory, a huge, overbearing wind into which every loose thing was sucked.
I took notes on the people around me, in my town, in my family, in my memory. I took notes on my own state of mind, my grandiosity, the low self-esteem. I wrote down the funny stuff I overheard. I learned to be like a ship's rat, veined ears trembling, and I learned to scribble it all down.
I was assailed by memories of a life that wasn't mine anymore, but one in which I'd found the simplest and most lasting joys: the smells of summer, the part of town I loved, a certain evening sky, Marie's dresses and the way she laughed.
When he recalls it in later years, he will wonder if he is distorting it, embellishing it, because each time he consciously recalls her, that forms a new memory, a new imprint to be stacked on top of the previous one. He fears that too much handling will make it crumble.
My children, as long as you live, the shadow of the Hiss Case will brush you. In every pair of eyes that rests on you, you will see pass, like a cloud passing behind a woods in winter, the memory of your father - dissembled in friendly eyes, lurking in unfriendly eyes.
Footfalls echo in the memory, Down the passage which we did not take, Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden.
I dislike modern memoirs. They are generally written by people who have either entirely lost their memories, or have never done anything worth remembering.
It's a good way to spend quality time with your son. Down the road, it'll be a great memory.
Well, the memories were obviously - every match is important, every point counts, especially the last sort of 18, 20 years when the matches have been so tight.
It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer
The acquisition of Lauri added confusion to what we do. We'd been making similar stuff for years and everybody knew how to make those products. We basically doubled the size of our product line in one fell swoop and the old way of relying on memory no longer worked.
We're all so busy these days that it's hard for parents to spend time with their kids. This is a way for families to spend time together doing something creative. And when it's done, everybody will have created a memory they can take home with them.
The great end in religious instruction, is not to stamp our minds upon the young, but to stir up their own not to make them see with our eyes, but to look inquiringly and steadily with their own not to give them a definite amount of knowledge, but to inspire a fervent love of truth not to form an outward regularity, but to touch inward springs not to bind them by ineradicable prejudices to our particular sect or peculiar notions, but to prepare them for impartial, conscientious judging of whatever subjects may be offered to their decision not to burden memory, but to quicken and strengthen the power of thought.
The more I think about what I did, the more lucky I feel today. It has been two years now and it is already a distant memory.
Inspiration could be called inhaling the memory of an act never experienced.
In the end, the only events of my life worth telling are those when the imperishable world erupted into this transitory one All other memories of travels, people and my surroundings have paled beside these interior happenings But my encounters with the 'other' reality, my bouts with the unconscious, are indelibly engraved on my memory. In that realm there has always been wealth in abundance, and everything else has lost importance by comparison.
Writing her a message that her other friends can see conveys how meaningful her friendship was, so her memory is able to stay alive.
Lord, keep my memory green.
What he Sancho discovered was - oops - that the conventional wisdom was all wrong. It was possible to subvert the memory card without detection.
These are graphics. These are not exact photos. We want to use this to jog people's memory.
This has changed our lives. We used to have to know where everything is in the stockroom by memory.
Our memories are independent of our wills. It is not so easy to forget.
Kara's like another coach on the floor. She's very, very intelligent. She understands strategy. Her memory is unreal. She knows plays as well as I know them. And she's very vocal. If somebody's not in the right spot, she'll tell them immediately. She's a voice of reason. She points out common sense things that people don't get at times.
I don't really see the hurdles. I sense them like a memory
I had clearly become one. When I talked to a woman, the room went silent. The guys leaned in close to hear what I was saying, pulling out notebooks to write my words down and commit them to memory.
His memory is always with us, and we use it in the best way we know how. We're never going to let him go.
Micron is ... moving into flash memory, which is used in the hand held and cell phone markets, ... The world needs memory in one form or another, and Micron is moving to supply all the basic needs of the marketplace.
He's probably one of the most exciting guys I've seen in recent memory. He's a two-headed monster with the things he can do, and he can do the same things at the next level. He changes the game just by being on the field.
San Francisco is gone. Nothing remains of it but memories.
Snow-making technology and the best December in memory has really made it fine for us. The snow is so dense that it insulates itself. The warmer weather is not having much of an effect except everyone doesn't have to wear big, bulky winter clothes.
Science and technology revolutionize our lives, but memory, tradition and myth frame our response.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories