A Quote by Anita Loos

Memory is more indelible than ink. — © Anita Loos
Memory is more indelible than ink.
At some unnoticed moment, I began to understand that a life is written in indelible ink.
The sky is now indelible ink, The branches reft asunder; But you and I we do not shrink; We love the lovely thunder.
Pale ink is better than the most retentive memory.
The weakest ink is better than the best memory. Study with pen in hand.
You can’t miss your schedule. Every morning, you’re supposed to stick your right arm in this contraption in the wall. It tattoos the smooth inside of your forearm with your schedule for the day in a sickly purple ink. 7:00—Breakfast. 7:30—Kitchen Duties. 8:30—Education Center, Room 17. And so on. The ink is indelible until 22:00—Bathing
I've always subscribed to an old Chinese proverb that the palest ink is better than the best memory.
Pale ink is better than the most retentive memory. If it's written down, you can look it up. Just be damn sure you write it down.
To a theoretical physicist, there is no greater joy than to see that this curious activity we call calculation - the depositing of ink on paper, followed by throwing away the paper and depositing new ink on more paper - can actually tell us something about reality.
People say that time is a great healer. Which people? What are they talking about? I think some feelings you experience in your life are written in indelible ink and the best you can hope for is that they fade a little over the years.
A good writer must have more than vin rosé in his veins, use more than Chablis for ink.
I remember when the Bic pen was controversial. They came from France. They were cheap, and when one was out of ink, you threw it away; you didn't dip it into more ink.
It was one of those strange moments that came to him rarely, but never left. A moment that stamped itself on heart and brain, instantly recallable in every detail, for all of his life. There was no telling what made these moments different from any other, though he knew them when they came. He had seen sights more gruesome and more beautiful by far, and been left with no more than a fleeting muddle of their memory. But these-- the still moments, as he called them to himself-- they came with no warning, to print a random image of the most common things inside his brain, indelible.
At some unnoticed moment, I began to understand that a life is written in indelible ink. What I've chosen, what's happened unchosen, can't be unmade or redone. Poetry, though, is a door that only continues to open. Even the unchangeable past changes inside a poem. Not the facts, but the feeling, the comprehension.
The strongest memory is not as strong as the weakest ink.
Remembered memory is much more powerful than actually having your own memory.
We have a memory cut in pieces. And I write trying to recover our real memory, the memory of humankind, what I call the human rainbow, which is much more colorful and beautiful than the other one, the other rainbow.
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