Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Amnesia. 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 Amnesia Quotes And Sayings by 96 Authors including B.j. Neblett,Gwen Stefani,Lauren Oliver,Alex London,Tobsha Learner for you to enjoy and share.
Memories are reality's ghosts
Our memories, they can be inviting. But some are altogether, mighty frightening.
Memory is as thick as mud. It rises up, it overwhelms. It sucks you down and freezes you where you stand. Thrash and kick and gnash your teeth. There's no escaping it.
Amnesia was a soldier's best friend, and luckily, it could be taught. Missing limbs still ache, but missing memories never do.
Memory is a great deceiver: it embroiders until naught is left but the glory and the pleasure.
What is a memory? Not a storehouse, not a trunk in the attic, but an instrument that constantly refines the past into a narrative, accessible and acceptable to oneself.
I've a grand memory for forgetting,
The human brain is fascinating; we will forget a scent until we smell it again, we will erase a voice from our memory until we hear it again,and even emotions that seemed buried forever will be awakened when we return to the same place.
Memory becomes not a faculty but a coconspirator, a tool for constructing the self that we show the world.
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.
At a certain point memory becomes a beach strewn with landmines, all life's many losses buried in those sands.
There are some experiences and intimations which scar too deeply to permit of healing, and leave only such an added sensitiveness that memory reinspires all the original horror.
Memories consume
Like opening the wound
I'm picking me apart again
You all assume
I'm safe here in my room
Unless I try to start again.
Memory is a paradise out of which fate cannot drive us.
Memory is like a long, dark street, illuminated at intervals in a light so bright that it shows up every detail. And then one plunges into the dark stretch again.
Memory is both the curse of grief and the eventual talisman against it; what at first seems unbearable becomes the succor that can outlast pain.
The memories: they are the reality.
Remembrance of things past.
Experiences that we remember intrusively, despite desperately wanting to banish them from our minds, are closely linked to, and sometimes threaten, our perceptions of who we are and who we would like to be.
I wish I had amnesia so I could forget what you look like.
I don't think I remember my first memory
Man's memory shapes
Its own Eden within
Aye, Captain. I have a good memory. Except for the amnesia.
For a long time, my subconscious rested in a dark place, ticking through memories like a jukebox selecting a record ...
Memories drifting and piling up quietly, like letters on the doormat of an empty house.
Everyone has their own version of a memory,
Memory is identity ... You are what you have done; what you have done is in your memory; what you remember defines who you are; when you forget your life you cease to be, even before your death.
Memory revises me.
Memory is a fascinating trickster. Words and images have enormous power and can easily displace actual experience over the years.
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.
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. ...
Few have wished for memory so much as they have longed for forgetfulness.
Recollection hurt so much; I could barely remember my unbroken self
Forgetting is the precious balm that helps us to travel on, past the depredations of memory.
I was trying to figure out what a memory feels like.
Memory is a cruel mistress with whom we all must learn to dance.
Memory is a cloudy, disjointed thing - like disconnected dreams with images scattered and thrown to settle where they please.
I'm a psychic amnesiac. I know in advance what I'll forget.
It seems that whether we are aware of it or not, memory carries a dagger in its breast.
A life is bookended by forgetting, as though memory forms the tunnel that leads into and out of a human body.
You remember some bedrooms you have slept in. There are bedrooms you like to remember and others you would like to forget.
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.
Details can change or go missing entirely, particularly in moments of physical peril. A kind of amnesia goes hand in hand with sickness, and a good thing, too.
To Remember Is Painful, To Forget Is Impossible.
What we cannot remember, we must rediscover.
Memory is a great betrayer.
Sometimes a memory is a thing that can't be explained using words.
Memory calls us back, Mystery draws us forward.
these leftover memories
We become aware, with amazement, that we have forgotten nothing, every memory evoked rises in front of us painfully clear.
Memories beautify life, but the capacity to forget makes it bearable.
As time passes, memory, inevitably, reconstitutes itself.
Memories can bring comfort to the old and infirm, but memories can also be implacable foes, a malicious army of temporal ghosts forever pillaging the long-sought-after peace of our twilight years.
Forget that I remember And dream that I forget.
Memory. Such a strange phenomenon. What does a person remember, and what does he choose to forget? Perhaps he's not choosing, but forgetting. And what does he remember, and for what reason?
Memory. My poison, my food.
There is a brief moment when you first wake where you have no memories. An idyllic blank slate. A blissful emptiness. But it doesn't last long. You remember exactly who you are and all the terrible things you've gone through.
Memories must enter the bloodstream, must churn awhile through the heart's mill, must be crushed and polished, be nearly forgotten or cling like burs to other stories before they spill forth in purple patterns, shapes of small bones and worm rot, shapes of clouds and the spaces between leaves.
We have all forgot more than we remember.
Memory is man's greatest friend and worst enemy.
Memoir is a confabulation of what we think we remember about our past.
Memory, like love, is an act of imagination, an abandonment and a possession.
In our endeavors to recall to memory something long forgotten, we often find ourselves upon the very verge of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember.
For in the end, it is all about memory, its sources and its magnitude, and, of course, its consequences.
Sometimes memory is the only gift we give ourselves and the only hope we have of finding our way home.
Memory is like fiction; or else it's fiction that's like memory.
No memory is ever alone; it's at the end of a trail of memories, a dozen trails that each have their own associations.
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.
Memory entering the head like a knife.
A girl's hands slicing the heart in two.
One evening I let a stranger buy me a round of a local specialty called, whimsically, amnesia ...
A person's memory is everything, really. Memory is identity. It's you.
Memories are what you no longer want to remember.
My memory's pretty much gone.
Memory lived not in initial possession but in the freed hands, pardoned and freed, and in the heart that can empty but fill again, in the patterns restored by dreams.
Memory is all we are. Moments and feelings, captured in amber, strung on filaments of reason. Take a man's memories and you take all of him. Chip away a memory at a time and you destroy him as surely as if you hammered nail after nail through his skull.
The world shrieks and sinks talons into our hearts. This we call memory.
Our worst memories are precious, things we can't or won't forget, and sometimes they're what we guard the most.
Memory is the residue of thought
For years I'd been trying to forget ... , locking it up and burying it deep in my memory. The journey ... had shattered that, bringing it all back - but now that I'd faced it, I found to my surprise that the fear had been worse than the reality.
Memory is a storm I can't repel.
The past has an undeniable grip on everyone, except, perhaps, amnesiacs.
The Mind of a Mnemonist
A deeply felt novel ... The Story of Forgetting offers us both solace and illumination. Stefan Merrill Block possesses a singular mix of imagination, compassion, and scientific understanding; he is equally gifted at spinning fantastic tales as he is at bringing genetic histories to vivid life.
Memory is the crux of our humanity. Without memory we have no identities. That is really why I am committing an autobiography.
Memory, when it juts, retreats, recovers, shows us how to hold the darkness, how to breathe.
Memory, even in the rest of us, is a shifting, fading, partial thing, a net that doesn't catch all the fish by any means and sometimes catches butterflies that don't exist.
Memory is a slippery thing. When something terrible happens to you, like the loss of someone you love ... memory can turn into a soft blanket that hides you from the loss.
So many versions of just one memory, and yet none of them were right or wrong. Instead, they were all pieces. Only when fitted together, edge to edge, could they even begin to tell the whole story.
Memory is, of course, a trickster.
It's terrifying to think you can remember things you shouldn't possibly be able to. It's like that childhood fear of having your soul slip from your body in your sleep. The darkness, those black sheets of glass sliding over you, upping the pressure, pushing you through the time and space and story.
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 imagination pinned down.
What we refer to confidently as memory is really a form of storytelling that goes on continually in the mind and often changes with the telling.
An imperfectly remembered life is a useless treachery. Every day, more fragments of the past roll around heavily in the chambers of an empty brain, shedding bits of color, a sentence or a fragrance, something that changes and then disappears. It drops like a stone to the bottom of the cave.
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.
My painful memories sift through me like sand through stretched fingers. Only small pieces cling and stay around for me to keep, the rest just disappear. I know not where and I don't
Memory is often less about the truth than about what we want it to be.
Ultimate horror often paralyses memory in a merciful way.
A memory is not the thing remembered.
Our memory is a monster; you forget it - it does not.