It is of no use to commit whole pages to memory, merely to recite them once without hesitation; you must think of the meaning more than the words – of the ideas more than the language.
The sharpest memory of our old-fashioned Christmas eve is my mother’s hand making sure I was settled in bed.
I was myself brought up with my brother, whose name was Matthias, for he was my own brother, by both father and mother; and I made mighty proficiency in the improvements of my learning, and appeared to have both a great memory and understanding.
Poetry is a vocal art for me – but not necessarily a performative one. It might be reading to oneself or recalling some lines by memory.
For a long time, I’ve been interested in cultural memory and historical erasure.
There remains, however, the hope, at least in Russia, that, as sometimes happens in history, the memory of lost alternatives will one day inspire efforts to regain them.
We only labor to stuff the memory, and leave the conscience and the understanding unfurnished and void.
This kind of forgetting does not erase memory, it lays the emotion surrounding the memory to rest.