Steven Patrick Morrissey Quotes

I have seen all, I have heard all, I have forgotten all.

I want them to forget me.

I don't care if I am ever remembered in this sport for anything.

I tell people all the time that it would be good if they forget about me next week, that they don't even mention my name anymore.

Liberating but hard to remember we're just bit-parts in the lives of people we know, who care very little for our secrets

The Egremonts had never said anything that was remembered, or done anything that could be recalled.

A lot of people can forget about you in Los Angeles.

Apathy is a sort of living oblivion.

I've obviously got one of those faces that people can forget.

People tend to remember my performances, not me.

I am convinced that it is not the fear of death, of our lives ending that haunts our sleep so much as the fear... that as far as the world is concerned, we might as well never have lived.

What I say or do here won't matter much, nor should it.

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

I could still be forgotten when I'm dead. I don't really care what happens when I'm dead.

There's nothing more horrifying than the possibility or the idea that you will just fade away into obscurity.

How prudently most men creep into nameless graves, while now and then one or two forget themselves into immortality.

Even if we love someone very much, at times it happens that we forget about it.

Of what significance are the things you can forget.

A great mind is one that can forget or look beyond itself.

Just when you begin thinking of yourself as memorable, you run into someone who can't even remember having met you

I'm not begging to be remembered or whatever. I did my thing, and if you remember, that's even better. But if you don't, there's so many other things going on.

Life must go on; I forget just why.

People don't remember me. Really. It's not a paranoid thing; I just have this habit of slipping through memories. It doesn't bother me all that much, except I guess that's a lie; it does. For some reason, I test very high on forgettability.

The great events of life often leave one unmoved; they pass out of consciousness, and, when thinks of them, become unreal. Even the scarlet flowers of passion seem to grow in the same meadow as the poppies of oblivion. We reject the burden of their memory, and have anodynes against them. But the little things, the things of no moment, remain with us. In some tiny ivory cell the brain stores the most delicate, and the most fleeting impressions.

It is better to forget about yourself altogether.