If a line of poetry strays into my memory, my skin bristles so that the razor ceases to act.
My earliest acting memory is making up a play for my mom and dad called The Lonesome Baby. I have no idea what The Lonesome Baby was about. I just remember the title. But I'm sure it was an epic.
Memory is a net: one that finds it full of fish when he takes it from the brook, but a dozen miles of water have run through it without sticking.
I don't think I think when I play. I have a photographic memory for chords, and when I'm playing, the right chords appear in my mind like photographs long before I get to them.
What has kept the world safe from the bomb since 1945 has not been deterrence, in the sense of fear of specific weapons, so much as it's been memory. The memory of what happened at Hiroshima.
I was helped by having a verbatim memory of what happened years ago, even if I can't remember what happened a couple of days ago.
A man of great memory without learning hath a rock and a spindle and no staff to spin.
His name, Buzz, fits. He can buzz along at 40 miles an hour when his genetic memory moves him.
In college, my big money memory was saving up to buy a car with my boyfriend, whom I lived with.
There's not a good poet I know who has not at the beck and call of his memory a vast quantity of poetry that composes his mental library.
I'm very 'spur of the moment'. I'm always trying to think of fun things to do to create a memory.
Gratitude is when memory is stored in the heart and not in the mind.
Memory is often less about the truth than about what we want it to be.
I don't know what a painting is; who knows what sets off even the desire to paint? It might be things, thoughts, a memory, sensations, which have nothing to do directly with painting itself. They can come from anything and anywhere.
Well, one of the things I discovered in the course of looking back and writing about what I saw in my memory is that I was a closely observant person long before I became a reporter.