Michael Scott Quotes

My biggest fear in life is to be forgotten.

We're not really afraid to die. We're only afraid of being forgotten. We know that we'll be forgotten, and the idea is unbearable, don't you agree? As time passes we become infrequent visitors in the minds of those left behind. The ones who clear out the house & divide up the belongings. Throw away the rubbish. And forget. If we knew that every evening someone lit a candle and sat down to think – thought about is if only for a few seconds – then we could depart this earth in peace. No-one will light a candle for me. Who would do that?

What do people fear most about death? I asked the reb. "Fear?" he thought for a moment. 'Well, for one thing, what happens next? Where do we go? Is it what we imagined?" That's big. "Yes. But there's something else." What else? He leaned forward. "Being forgotten," he whispered.

The names are the first things to go, after the breath has gone, and the beating of the heart. We keep our memories longer than our names.

Only the forgotten are truly dead.

I've made up so many stores about my name, I can't remember.

I would like to be forgotten. What's so good about being remembered?

He is remembered chiefly as the man about whom all is forgotten.

Nobody wants to be nameless. Nobody wanna be forgotten.

What I try to do is write about forgotten people, and, in a certain sense, we're all forgotten.

My death will not be penciled on someone's calendar.

One is alone when the last one who remembers is gone.

If you would be unloved and forgotten, be reasonable.

Unmissed but by his dogs and by his groom.

I am: yet what I am none cares or knows, My friends forsake me like a memory lost; I am the self-consumer of my woes, They rise and vanish in oblivious host, Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost; And yet I am, and live with shadows tost.

He is dead, she thought bitterly, because we have forgotten him.

The French say that to part is to die a little. To be forgotten too is to die a little. It is to lose some of the links that anchor us to the rest of humanity.

It is lost, lovely child, somewhere in the ragbag that I laughingly refer to as my memory.

you remember what is lost, and you forget what's right in front of you.

When we die we are only stories in the minds of others, I thought

Who was I? The stranger was footsteps in the snow a long time ago.

Oblivion is not to be hired.

Soon you will have forgotten the world, and soon the world will have forgotten you.

I realized people would soon forget me once I was dead. I couldn't even say that this was hard to stomach; really, there's no idea to which one doesn't get acclimatized in time.

The strands are all there; to the memory nothing is ever lost.