A Quote by Mark Z. Danielewski

One forgets that one is one. I must try to remember this. — © Mark Z. Danielewski
One forgets that one is one. I must try to remember this.
What release to write so that one forgets oneself, forgets one's companion, forgets where one is or what one is going to do next to be drenched in sleep or in the sea. Pencils and pads and curling blue sheets alive with letters heap up on the desk.
Try to remember the kind of September When life was slow and oh so mellow. Try to remember the kind of September When grass was green and grain was yellow. Try to remember the kind of September When you were a tender and callow fellow. Try to remember and if you remember then follow follow.
There are three signs of senility. The first sign is that a man forgets his theorems. The second sign is that he forgets to zip up. The third sign is that he forgets to zip down.
He who forgets will be destined to remember.
I must try to remember that a boy's heart is not a man's, and perhaps a teacher must learn from his pupil, too, eh?
And each forgets, as he strips and runs With a brilliant, fitful pace, It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones Who win in the lifelong race. And each forgets that his youth has fled, Forgets that his prime is past, Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead, In the glare of the truth at last.
We forget the origin of a parvenu if he remembers it; we remember it if he forgets it.
Love and hate always remember; it is only indifference that forgets.
If you remember me, then I don't care if everyone else forgets.
One forgets words as one forgets names. One's vocabulary needs constant fertilizing or it will die.
A child forgets a time of hunger but never forgets the aching want of other things.
Remember that one who forgets the language of gratitude can never be on speaking terms with happiness.
I know it's not easy for you, living this life, but try to remember, always try to remember, you're not the only one with troubles.
I remember being very smart, which is a form of stupidity. I try not to remember it, but it occurs to me that I may have felt intellectual. I entertained views too noble or too bitter to be true. I must have done some soul-stretching of my mental neck.
Nothing is more wistful than the scent of lilac, nor more robust than its woody stalk, for we must remember that it is a tree as well as a flower, we must try not to forget this.
It says more about America, what happened that day, than almost anything since. And yet, we tend to forget. None of us forgets on Memorial Day, none of us forgets on Flag Day, none of us forgets on Veterans Day. We should not forget on Bunker Hill Day.
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