forgotten

"Oh, ancient god, whatever your name," whispered Ahmed. "Help this lost son of a good father, this evil boy who meant no harm but slept in school, ran errands slowly, did not pray from his heart, ignored his mother, and did not hold his family in great esteem. For all this I know I must suffer. But here in the midst of silence, at the desert's heart, where even the wind knows not my name? Must I die so young? Am I to be forgotten without having been?"

All men know the use of the useful, but nobody knows the use of the useless.

Where can I find a man who has forgotten words so that I can have a word with him?

I wish I had more to tell of my grandmothers.  It is terrible how much has been forgotten, which is why, I suppose, remembering seems a holy thing.