They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
from For the Fallen
Poem by Robert Laurence Binyon (1869-1943), published in The Times newspaper on 21 September 1914.
Please see below recent memory-related change.
Halcyon curates the most significant memory-related content from carefully selected sources. Please contact us if you'd like our help with memory-related challenges.
I realised that the essential book, the one true book, is one that the great writer does not need to invent, in the current sense of the word, since it already exists in every one of us — he has only to translate it. The task and the duty of a writer are those of a translator - Marcel Proust
The Ego Trick looked at the 'bundle theory' of the self, and argued that we don't have a permanent essential self, but instead are a bundle of thoughts, sensations and impulses.
Meanwhile, a Harvard clinical psychologist and Tibetan Buddhist scholar, examined the nature of awareness and self.
"If the past is replayed too fast, life seems futile, and humanity resembles water flowing from a tap, straight down the drain. A film of history for today needs to be in slow motion, showing every person who ever lived as a star, though dimly visible in a night sky, a history still unexplored" - Theodore Zeldin, An Intimate History of Humanity
A call to action. Time to explore these unexplored histories together.
Sitting in the dark in 1981 in Honeypot Lane, with a pint of banana Nesquik and too early, too deep a love for company. Mystical companion ever since - il miglior canto.
Moves languidly along a flat line, left to right, like no other song.
Lenny's impressions - rose in teeth...brother...gypsy. My impressions: cold New York, snow fluttering by Greenwich Village road-signs in early 1999, before the surreal back-room bar with the chaise longue and the open fire up the archetypal fire escape.
Towering above all this, "thaaaaaaaaanks..." (In at least that one word, companion of Roy's "sweeeeeetly", Jenny trumps Lenny, or at least honours him in a voice he would have liked to have used but never had - now that I know all about, don't I?)
Can we ever escape - do we even really wish to escape - our own green lights flashing across the bay of memory, across the sound of time?
No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man can store up in his ghostly heart.
The too obstrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a short cut from nothing to nothing.
They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental, isolated, like ghosts, even from our pity.
The rhythm of the year, summing up and sadness and suggestiveness of life in new tunes.
It took me - at least - half my life to pick up and read such a slim volume, but now I find myself entranced by the clarity, craftsmanship and compassion permeating The Great Gatsby.