Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Recollections. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Recollections Quotes And Sayings by 95 Authors including Alfred Capus,Jean Paul,Emil Cioran,Ralph Ellison,Joseph B. Wirthlin for you to enjoy and share.
The best memories are those which we have forgotten.
Recollection is the only paradise from which we cannot be turned out.
Each time I have a lapse of memory, I think of the anguish which must afflict those who know they no longer remember anything. But something tells me that after a certain time a secret joy possesses them, a joy they would not agree to trade for any of their memories, even the most stirring. ...
That which we remember is, more often than not, that which we would like to have been; or that which we hope to be. Thus our memory and our identity are ever at odds; our history ever a tale told by inattentive idealists.
Some memories are unforgettable, remaining ever vivid and heartwarming!
Memory: what wonders it performs in preserving and storing up things gone by - or rather, things that are
When we remember something, we're taking bits and pieces of experience - sometimes from different times and places - and bringing it all together to construct what might feel like a recollection but is actually a construction.
I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers. I remember where a toad may live and what time the birds awaken in the summer
and what trees and seasons smelled like
how people looked and walked and smelled even. The memory of odors is very rich.
We now know that memories are not fixed or frozen, like Proust's jars of preserves in a larder, but are transformed, disassembled, reassembled, and recategorized with every act of recollection.
There is no man so unsuited for the task of speaking about memory as I am, for I find scarcely a trace of it in myself, and I do not believe there is another man in the world so hideously lacking in it.
It is curious to note how fragile the memory is, even for the important times in one's life. This is, moreover, what explains the fortunate fantasy of history.
Memory is the place where our vanished days secretly gather ... The past seems to be gone and absent. Yet the grooves in the mind hold the traces and vestiga of everything that has ever happened to us. Nothing is ever lost or forgotten.
The most evocative life memories, which produced a synesthesia of emotions, consist of a host of small pleasures intertwined with the homespun stitches of love, affection, kindness, humility, and appreciation of nature.
Several sorts of memory exist in us; body and mind each possesses one peculiar to itself. Nostalgia, for instance, is a malady of the physical memory.
On the stem of memory imaginations blossom.
My most salient memories
Memory and regret can mingle, how much sorrow can be held within, and how nothing seems to have any shape or meaning until it is well past and lost and, even then, how much, under the weight of pure determination, can be forgotten and left aside only to return in the night as piercing pain.
Now and again thousands of memories
converge, harmonize,
arrange themselves around a central idea
in a coherent form,
and I write a story.
Memories beautify life, but the capacity to forget makes it bearable.
[Memory] is a passion no less powerful or pervasive than love. It is [the ability] to live in more than one world, to prevent the past from fading, and to call upon the future to illuminate it.
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view.
Memories begin to creep forward from hidden corners of your mind. Passing disappointments. Lost chances and lost causes. Heartbreaks and pain and desolate, horrible loneliness. Sorrows you thought long forgotten mingle with still-fresh wounds.
Memory performs the impossible for man; holds together past and present, gives continuity and dignity to human life.
From one moment to another memory steps back to rediscover the past
Moments fly, memories remain; and then memories fly, only memoirs remain and finally memoirs disappear, nothing remains!
Memory is dialogic and arises not only from direct experience but from the intercourse of many minds.
Memory ... is the diary that we all carry about with us.
Memory is fiction. We select the brightest and the darkest, ignoring what we are ashamed of, and so embroider the broad tapestry of our lives.
The memories we're fondest of are not always our own
Every vivid memory holds some essential truth about your vision of the world
They're not memories, they're reminders,
The memory of anyone one had truly loved stayed distinct always and with a special fragrance, quite unaffected by the years. And the memory of one's deepest friendships had a touch of the same magic. But
The books of our childhood offer a vivid door to our own pasts, and not necessarily for the stories we read there, but for the memories of where we were and who we were when we were reading them; to remember a book is to remember the child who read that book.
Memory is a great deceiver: it embroiders until naught is left but the glory and the pleasure.
Memory is an act of meaning-making. It collects the disparate pieces of our lives and distills them.
[T]hose most precious memories are hidden in the safest place of all. Safe from fire or floods or war. In stories. Stories remembered, until they are ready to be told. Or perhaps simply ready to be heard.
Memory is the way we keep telling ourselves our stories - and telling other people a somewhat different version of our stories.
Memories were moving pictures in which meaning was constantly in flux. They were stories people told themselves.
Shall memory restore The steps and the shore, The face and the meeting place;
People are made of stories. Our memories are not the impartial accumulation of every second we've lived; they're the narrative that we assembled out of selected moments.
A strange thing is memory, and hope; one looks backward, and the other forward; one is of today, the other of tomorrow. Memory is history recorded in our brain, memory is a painter, it paints pictures of the past and of the day.
Memory is the best of all gardens. Therein, winter and summer, the seeds of their past lie dormant, ready to spring into instant bloom at any moment the mind wishes to bring them to life.
Memory is the power to revive again in our minds those ideas which after imprinting have disappeared, or have been laid aside out of sight.
A good memory is surely a compost heap that converts experience to wisdom, creativity, or dottiness; not that these things are of much earthly value, but at least they may keep you amused when the world is keeping you locked away or shutting you out.
Memory, which so confounds our waking life with anticipation and regret, may well be our one earthly consolation when time slips out of joint.
The memories of childhood have a strange shuttling quality, and areas of darkness ring the spaces of light. The memories of childhood are like clear candles in an acre of night, illuminating fixed scenes from surrounding darkness.
Memories feign through scarcely perceived doors of my being.
Our heads may be small, but they are as full of memories as the sky may sometimes be full of swarming bees, thousands and thousands of memories, of smells, of places, of little things that happened to us and which come back, unexpectedly, to remind us who we are. And who am I?
That which resembles most living one's life over again, seems to be to recall all the circumstances of it; and, to render this remembrance more durable, to record them in writing.
To retrieve the past is no great effort, when the events to be recalled are so firmly imprinted on the mind. It is existence in the present, the bleak wreckage and residue of what has gone before, that is so burdensome.
The mind is a great and powerful thing, bisected with hallways of darkness and corners of light. Memories can alternately fill your life with joy and happiness and cloud every moment with nightmares and fear, making you second-guess all of the good things and wonder if they were ever real.
Recollection, I have found, is usually about half invention ...
Life was an uncertain thing, and there were some moments one wished to remember, to imprint upon one's mind that the memory might be taken out later, like a flower pressed between the pages of a book, and admired and recollected anew. - Sophie and Gideon Lightwood
The memory of past favors is like a rainbow, bright, vivid, and beautiful; but it soon fades away. The in memory of injuries is engraved on the heart, and remains forever.
How fickle it is, memory - preferring some days to others, granting first a blue sky, offering next the sound of laughter, swelling our remembrances until a largeness seeps into the grain of things and memory itself becomes billowed and flapping.
Memories of our childhood are like images painted on a wet canvas, they merge until they lose all shape, often remaing only as feelings.
We are all looking for something of extraordinary importance whose nature we have forgotten; I am writing the memoirs of a man who has lost his memory.
Those memories that are engraved within me become teaching tools, ways of connecting with others, of creating an empathic bridge, of reaching out a hand and saying, I've been there, too.
Memory as an article of faith often comes naturally to writers, who by temperament are likely to be diarists and record keepers, forever searching past events for elusive patterns - and forever believing that such patterns are to be found.
We owe to memory not only the increase of our knowledge, and our progress in rational inquiries, but many other intellectual pleasures
Memories are thins sheets of metal that can be easily molded or shaped. They possess the power to either tickle your heart or haunt your soul.
Memory is of no use to the remembered, only to those who remember. We build ourselves with memory and console ourselves with memory.
Some memories were all right, but others were dangerous.
The act of vividly recalling a patch of the past is something that I seem to have been performing with the utmost zest all my life, and I have reason to believe that this almost pathological keenness of the retrospective faculty is a hereditary trait.
Memory, like love, is an act of imagination, an abandonment and a possession.
A lively retrospect summons back to us once more our youth, with vivid reflex of its early joys and unstained pleasures.
Remembering is painful, it's difficult, but it can be inspiring and it can give wisdom.
The past in retrospect holds manifold disenchantments, failures and even tragedies; and yet the worse may be forgotten and the best held fast.
Memories which someday will become all beautiful when the last annoyance that encumbers them shall have faded out of our minds.
Time passes, but memories linger.
the cruel forgetfulness of old age, when the most ancient of memories stand out with agonizingly clear precision and the nearest of incidents are lost beyond recall. With
From the summer of my twelfth year I carry a series of images more vivid and lasting than any others of my boyhood and indelible beyond all attempts the years make to erase or fade them.
The people made their recollections fit in with their sufferings
Memories, pressed between the pages of my mind. Memories, sweetened through the ages just like wine.
Memory is a great deceiver, grief and longing cloud the past, and recollections, even vivid ones, fade.
Memories don't all have to be good.
No matter what they are in life, in memory they always seem to rearrange themselves in the opposite manner. All pleasures are seen as foreshortened and hasty and fleeting, and all pain lingering.
Memories carry thoughts through the passage of time.
Since my brother died in 1982, my parents and I had formed a shaky tripod of a family; now that I'd lost my father too, it was too easy for me to glimpse a future point where I alone was the keeper of not just my own childhood memories, but of my family lore.
Memories are't like words; they're soft and gooey. Covered with a sticky slime, like a penis after sex, or your vagina when you menstruate, and shaped like tadpoles or tiny watersnakes
Our memories do not visit us in chronology, and the story we form by joining up the memories involves choices with the purpose of making a whole and finding a pattern.
Looking repeatedly into the past, you do not necessarily become fascinated with your own life, but rather with the phenomenon of memory.
Such are the Splendors and Miseries of memory: it is proud of its ability to keep truthful track of the logical sequence of past events; but when it comes to how we experienced them at the time, memory feels no obligation to truth.
The mists of nostalgia color memory.
Memory becomes not a faculty but a coconspirator, a tool for constructing the self that we show the world.
Kneading memory makes the dough of fiction; which we know, sometimes never stops rising.
Those many quiet moments reminiscing on days long past. On memories ever present. "May
Memories may escape the action of the will, may sleep a long time, but when stirred by the right influence, though that influence be light as a shadow, they flash into full stature and life with everything in place
No memory is ever alone; it's at the end of a trail of memories, a dozen trails that each have their own associations.
Memories do not always behave in an orderly way, but bloom, as it were, erratically ...
How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection recalls them to view; The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew.
We become aware, with amazement, that we have forgotten nothing, every memory evoked rises in front of us painfully clear.
These memories are part of my heritage, the fabric of my personality, and as real to me as the land itself.
The secret of a good memory is attention, and attention to a subject depends upon our interest in it. We rarely forget that which has made a deep impression on our minds.
Memories, how they linger in the twilight and in the wee small hours sometimes just before dawn.
I witness with pleasure the supreme achievement of memory, which is the masterly use it makes of innate harmonies when gathering to its fold the suspended and wandering tonalities of the past.
It is by thoughtful reflection that the elusive moments of the past draw near to us in present reality and gain a measure of permanence.
What are any of our lives but the shapes we force them into. Memory doesn't come to us of its own; we go after it, pull it into sunlight and make of it what we need, what we're driven towards, what we imagine, changing the world again and again with each new quarry, each descent, each morning.
Memory is a fiction we tell ourselves: just a piece of the truth.
There is much that I remember but which is painful to dwell on. I see no need to write about these things. They are over and must be accepted, made sense of and forgiven, afforded no more than their proper place in a long life in which I have always known that happiness is a gift, not a right.