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1
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Memory, workmaid and mother of the Muses.
(Aeschylus (525-456 B.C.), Greek tragedian. Prometheus Bound, l. 461.)
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Aeschylus
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2
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Memory, the warder of the brain.
(William Shakespeare (1564-1616), British dramatist, poet. Lady Macbeth, in Macbeth, act 1, sc. 7, l. 65.
"Warder" means watchman.)
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William Shakespeare
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3
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On the stem
Of memory imaginations blossom.
(Patrick Kavanagh (1905-1969), Irish poet, novelist. Father Mat (l. 79-80). . .
Anthology of Irish Literature, An. David H. Greene, ed. (1954) The Modern Library.)
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Patrick Kavanagh
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4
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... memory is the only way home.
(Terry Tempest Williams, U.S. author. As quoted in Listen to Their Voices, ch. 10, by Mickey Pearlman (1993).)
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Terry Tempest Williams
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5
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An angel has no memory.
(Terry Southern (b. 1924), U.S. screenwriter, and Roger Vadim. Pygar (John Philip Law), Barbarella, as he rescues both Barbarella and the evil Black Queen—the film's final line (1968).
Film is based on the comic strip by Jean-Claude Forest.)
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Terry Southern
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6
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Memory is imagination pinned down.
(Mason Cooley (b. 1927), U.S. aphorist. City Aphorisms, Sixth Selection, New York (1989).)
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Mason Cooley
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7
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The selective memory isn't selective enough.
(Blake Morrison (b. 1950), British poet, critic. Independent on Sunday (London, June 16, 1991).)
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Blake Morrison
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8
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Bitter memory like vomit
Choked my throat.
(Gary Snyder (b. 1930), U.S. poet. An Autumn Morning in Shokoku-ji (l. 3-4). . .
No Nature; New and Selected Poems [Gary Snyder]. (1992) Pantheon Books.)
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Gary Snyder
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9
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You have to begin to lose your memory, if only in bits and pieces, to realize that memory is what makes our lives. Life without memory is no life at all, just as an intelligence without the possibility of expression is not really an intelligence. Our memory is our coherence, our reason, our feeling, even our action. Without it, we are nothing.
(Luis Buñuel (1900-1983), Spanish filmmaker. My Last Sigh, ch. 1 (1983).)
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Luis Buñuel
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10
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The light of memory, or rather the light that memory lends to things, is the palest light of all.... I am not quite sure whether I am dreaming or remembering, whether I have lived my life or dreamed it. Just as dreams do, memory makes me profoundly aware of the unreality, the evanescence of the world, a fleeting image in the moving water.
(Eugène Ionesco (b. 1912), Rumanian-born French playwright. Present PastPast Present, ch. 5 (1968).)
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Eugène Ionesco
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Poets
