遗忘
The world is a place of the living, and the dead have no place in it. The dead are nothing. They are not even a memory. They are forgotten.
"The dead are not dead until they are forgotten."
"To forget is to lose a part of ourselves, but to remember is to keep it alive."
The art of competing, I’d learned from track, was the art of forgetting, and I now reminded myself of that fact. You must forget your limits. You must forget your doubts, your pain, your past.
"The best portion of a good man's life: his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love."
I give the fight up: let there be an end, a privacy, an obscure nook for me. I want to be forgotten even by God.
The act of writing is an act of rebellion against oblivion.
The heart is a labyrinth of forgotten desires.
Writing is a way of fighting against oblivion, against death.
Writing is an act of resistance against forgetting.
The act of writing is an act of resistance against oblivion.
To write is to resist the forces of forgetting.
To write is to fight against oblivion.
The act of writing is an act of resistance against forgetting.
The melancholy science from which I make this offering to my friend relates to a region that from time immemorial was regarded as the true field of philosophy, but which, since the latter's conversion into method, has lapsed into intellectual neglect, sententious whimsy, and finally oblivion.
