Memory – the very skin of life.
Some memories are realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again.
Memory is the diary we all carry about with us.
I wear the key of memory, and can open every door in the house of my life.
Memory is a magnet. It will pull to it and hold only material nature has designed it to attract.
I can understand that memory must be selective, else it would choke on the glut of experience. What I cannot understand is why it selects what it does.
I remember what was missing instead of what was there. I am a chronicler of absence.
In memory each of us is an artist:
each of us creates.
There can be no harm / In just remembering – that is all.
How we remember, what we remember, and why we remember form the most personal map of our individuality.
The hills of one’s youth are all mountains.
Memories are like corks left out of bottles. They swell. They no longer fit.
Memory is a complicated thing, a relative to truth but not its twin.
I can never remember things I didn’t understand in the first place.
They ask me to remember / but they want me to remember / their memories / and I keep on remembering / mine.
The irony of life is not that you cannot forget but that you can.
I have a terrible memory; I never forget a thing.
Just remember enough never to be vulnerable again:
total forgetting could be as self-destructive as complete remembering.
I think, myself, that one’s memories represent those moments which, insignificant as they may seem, nevertheless represent the inner self and oneself as most really oneself.
Looking repeatedly into the past, you do not necessarily become fascinated with your own life, but rather with the phenomenon of memory.
Memory is to love what the saucer is to the cup.