He didn’t remember the very first time he actually died very well. It wasn’t as bad as remediation, but he remembered being afraid and worried… and when he found himself alive again a few hours later with Mearth’s wild green eyes peering down at him, he remembered still being afraid and worried. It was strange, he thought, to be afraid of being alive… but being alive was worse than being dead in his mind.
A pleasure is full grown only when it is remembered.
Slowly, quietly, like snow-flakes-like the small flakes that come when it is going to snow all night
-little flakes of me, my impressions, my selections, are settling down on the image of her. The real shape wil be quite hidden in the end.
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.
And as Rhonda told the story, she thought: this is how the past gets passed down. This is how memories are made. Half-invented, embellished, given a touch of whimsy. Daniel would be a saint now that he was dead. A beautiful man who made his child wings.
One of my friends at the Compound has a photographic memory. Everything she ever sees, reads, or hears, she remembers forever in perfect detail.
As well as remembering too little, I have seen too much
Those are the facts but not the truth, which does not even speak the same language.
Our memory is a more perfect world than the universe: it gives back life to those who no longer exist.
Preservation of the past has been one of humankind’s chief preoccupations for centuries, although I am not convinced much of it is worth preserving.