And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun/ And she forgot the blue above the trees, / And she forgot the dells where waters run, / And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze;/ She had no knowledge when the day was done, / And the new morn she saw not: but in peace/ Hung over her sweet basil evermore, / And moisten'd it with tears unto the core.
I laughed but before I could agree with the hairdressers that she was crazy, she said, 'What's the world for if you can't make it up the way you want it?' " 'The way I want it?' " 'Yeah. The way you want it. Don't you want it to be something more than what it is?' " 'What'st eh point? I can't change it.' " 'That's the point. If you don't, it will change you and it'll be your fault cause you let it. I let it. And messed up my life.' " 'Mess it up how?' " 'Forgot it.' " 'Forgot?' " 'Forgot it was mine. My life. I just ran up and down the streets wishing I was somebody else.
Scheele, it was said, never forgot anything if it had to do with chemistry. He never forgot the look, the feel, the smell of a substance, or the way it was transformed in chemical reactions, never forgot anything he read, or was told, about the phenomena of chemistry. He seemed indifferent, or inattentive, to most things else, being wholly dedicated to his single passion, chemistry. It was this pure and passionate absorption in phenomena-noticing everything, forgetting nothing-that constituted Scheele's special strength.
For that short space of time, she forgot she was sad and a little afraid. She let herself forget that after tonight, she might never see him again and that if she did, whatever it was between them would no longer exist. When he deepened the kiss and his weight pressed her against the ground, she forgot everything, losing herself in a wave of sensation that carried no threat, inspired no fear, and belonged to no one but her.
And then she fell into his arms. It was what he'd dreamed of on sleepless nights, holding her, feeling the press of her breasts to his chest, the flare of her hips in his hands. He forgot all about where they were, why they were alone together. He forgot the risk of his dishonor and her ruin. There was still a corrupt beast inside him, waiting for this chance. All that mattered was that they were alone, and she was with him, and he wished he never had to let her go.
Once he entered my life, I promptly forgot all my years of putting on a brave face while browsing at bookstores until closing time, and of having one, two, three beers while watching crime shows and CNN. I completely forgot the hateful sensation of loneliness, like thirst and hunger together pressing on my stomach.
At the thought of being eaten by rats, Despereaux forgot about being brave. He forgot about not being a disappointment. He felt himself heading into another faint. But his mother, who had an excellent sense of dramatic timing, beat him to it; she executed a beautiful, flawless swoon, landing right at Despereaux's feet.
When her muzzle grew more white than brown, the chipmunk forgot that she and the squirrel had had nothing to talk about. She forgot the definition of "jazz" as well and came to think of it as every beautiful thing she had ever failed to appreciate: the taste of warm rain; the smell of a baby; the din of a swollen river, rushing past her tree and onward to infinity.
dJack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack forgot to check if the ice was thick. Emma was still, Emma was late, Emma's brother is now part of the lake. Time has passed, Time has gone, Time brought Jack back wrong. He was solemn, He was brave, He left his coat on Emma's grave. Emma was sad, Emma was scared, But she knew inside that Jack really cared. Jack was lost, Jack had forgot, That he had a story before the plot. Jack had wondered, Jack had fought, Jack had remembered what he had forgot. I hope you dream. I hope you wonder. I hope you have fun because this is done. Keep believing everyone. Jack be fearless, Jack be bold, Jack drowned when he was 17 years old.
A shaft of sunlight at the end of a dark afternoon, a note of music, and the way the back of a baby's neck smells if it's mother keeps it tidy," answered Henry. "Correct," said Stuart. "Those are the important things. You forgot one thing, though. Mary Bendix, what did Henry Rackmeyer forget?" "He forgot ice cream with chocolate sauce on it," said Mary quickly.
E. B. White
Memory deludes me. I have just remembered something that I completely forgot after it happened. I remembered it again when I was about sixteen, and then I forgot it again. And this morning I remembered not the event itself but the previous recollection, which itself was more than forty years ago, as though an old moon were reflected in a windowpane from which it was reflected in a lake, from where memory draws not the reflection itself, which no longer exists, but only its whitened bones.
Dear Beloved woman, Time... so much time has passed since my love wrote his last words for me. And yet I remember it as if it were yesterday. I remember writing back and for the first time since I had left home I told my love what kind of darkness surrounded me here. I forgot all the sweet things my father had said to my mother when he was away. I forgot how they got her through all those long and lonely nights.
Without order or authority in the spirit of man the free way of life leads through weakness, disorganization, self-indulgence, and moral indifference to the destruction of freedom itself. The tragic ordeal through which the Western world is passing was prepared in the long period of easy liberty, during which men . . . forgot that their freedom was achieved by heroic sacrifice. . . . They forgot that their rights were founded on their duties. . . . They thought it clever to be cynical, enlightened to be unbelieving, and sensible to be soft.
I sat there and forgot and forgot, until what remained was the river that went by and I who watched. On the river the heat mirages danced with each other and then they danced through each other and then they joined hands and danced around each other. Eventually the water joined the river, and there was only one of us. I believe it was the river.
And tonight I'm feelin like an astronaut, sending sos from this tiny box, and i lost the signal when i lifted off, now i'm stuck up here and the world forgot, can i please come down? Cuz i'm tired of drifting round and round... can i please come down? Now I lie awake and scream in my zero gravity... and its starting to weigh down on me... lets abort this mission now... CAN I PLEASE COME DOWN? So tonight I'm calling all the astronauts, all the lonely people that the world forgot, if you hear my voice, come pick me up, cuz ur all i've got...
YOU'D LIKE ME TO BELIEVE THAT WE ARE ONE AND GIVE IN TO THIS NIGHTMARE LIFE'S BECOME WHERE EVERY THOUGHT IS MADE OF SHAME AND I FORGOT MY REAL NAME YEAH I FORGOT MY REAL NAME OH BUT YOU AND I ARE NOT THE SAME I'VE KNOWN YOU SINCE THE DAY THAT I WAS BORN I'VE KNOWN YOU SINCE THE DAY THAT I WAS BORN PATHWAY TO YOUR DOORSTEP FROM MINE IS WELL WORN CAUSE I'VE KNOWN YOU SINCE THE DAY THAT I WAS BORN I'VE KNOWN YOU SINCE THE DAY THAT I WAS BORN I'VE KNOWN YOU SINCE THE DAY THAT I WAS BORN
We believe that information is an enlightening agent, but I can assure you it is not. We consume information, but we can't read. We forgot how to sit down and engage the dense layers of a text. We are so busy devouring information that we forgot how to dance with ideas. We confuse linguistic bits of data for knowledge and ideas. I can assure you, gentlemen, they are not the same. Ideas require effort and the kind of sensibility that engages the subtle layers of meaning. What the hell does information require?
MONEY IS A HABIT I CAN FRONT YOU WORK IF THINK YOU CAN HANDLE IT TRAP GOT BIRDS, BY THE WHITE LIKE DANDRUFF SHOUT OUT TO THAT ARM AND HAMMER, IN THE CABINT TRAPPIN IS A HABIT CASH I GOTTA HAVE IT WHEN I WHIP THE WORK I BACK FLIP THEN STASH IT HANDS GET TO TOUCHING MONEY DO IT LIKE A HABIT BUST A BRICK DOWN, DIEGO USING PLASTIC CAN'T FORGET A FACE, FORGOT HER NAME THAT'S A HABIT ALL ABOUT THE MONEY, RACING NIGGAS DRAGING CAN'T FORGET A FACE, FORGOT HER NAME THAT'S A HABIT ALL ABOUT THE MONEY, TRAP GAME IS A HABIT
His friends told him that nobody was interested in his goddam soul unless it was the priest and he managed to answer that no priest taking orders from no pope was going to tamper with his soul. They told him he didn't have any soul and left for the brothel. He took a long time to believe them because he wanted to believe them. All he wanted was to believe them and get rid of it once and for all, and he saw opportunity here to get rid of it without corruption, to be converted to nothing instead of to evil. The army sent him halfway around the world and forgot him. He was wounded and they remembered him long enough to take the shrapnel out of his chest - they said they took it out but they never showed it to him and he felt it still in there, rusted, and poisoning him - and then they sent him to another desert and forgot him again. He had all the time he could want to study his soul in and assure himself that it was not there. When he was thoroughly convinced, he saw that this was something that he had always known.
But you didn't mention Orrigar I, the first king of the House of Chaldarina. He put an end to years of unrest and civil strife. Neither did you mention Ronnick II, the one who reformed the monetary system and forbade the Great Houses to mint their own coins, thus stabilizing our currency. At the time it saved Ximerion from going bankrupt.' 'I'm sorry. I told you we weren't big-' 'It's not that, Hemarchidas. You remembered the fighting kings, those who brought war, destruction and ephemeral glory. Or those who ended tragically. You forgot the wise administrators, those who kept the peace, those who brought prosperity. You needn't feel embarrassed, though. So did history.' Hemarchidas looked at his friend as if he saw him for the first time. 'So, all in all, Hemarchidas, I'd rather history forgot me.