Forgetting (n.) is best accomplished by trying to find something else to remember.
Forgetting (n.) is not the opposite of recollecting; it is the opposite of remembering.
Forgetting (n.) is, in its highest sense, the opposite not of remembering but of hoping: hope gives existence in reflection, forgetting takes it away — when God forgets sin, it is the opposite of creating, a resolving back into nothing.
Forgetting (n.) the dead happens as the dead molders: the memory crumbles between the fingers and one grows free of this difficult remembering — is that the much-praised free love?
Forgetting (n.) is impossible where one's being has its source: the brook cannot forget its spring, the arrow its bowstring, the raindrop its sky — “Can I forget him? Then I must cease to be!”
Forgetting (n.) is an art that must be practiced beforehand: whoever plunges into experience on the momentum of hope will remember in such a way that he cannot forget.
Forgetting (n.) measures the elasticity of a spirit: a man who cannot forget will never amount to much.
Forgetting (n.) is the shears with which you cut away what you cannot use, under the supreme direction of memory — forgetting and remembering are identical arts.
Forgetting (n.) fails when unpleasant things are dismissed absolutely from the mind: they pay a surprise visit in an unguarded moment, armed with all the force of the unexpected.
Forgetting (n.) oneself is for lower natures: the butterfly has forgotten it was a caterpillar, and may yet forget it was a butterfly and become a fish.