Memory is the mother of all wisdom.
In memory everything seems to happen to music.
Memory ... is the diary that we all carry about with us.
Memory, however sad, is the best and purest link between this world and a better.
Vanity plays lurid tricks with our memory.
Ah what agony is that, what despair, when the tomb of memory is rent open and the ghosts of his old life comes forth to scourge him!
The heart's memory eliminates the bad and magnifies the good, and ... thanks to this artifice we manage to endure the burden of the past.
No matter how far we travel, the memories will follow in the baggage car.
Memory believes before knowing remembers. Believes longer than recollects, longer than knowing even wonders.
Old age was not a rushing torrent but a bottomless cistern where ... memory drained away.
Each memory recalled must do some violence to its origins. As in a party game. Say the word and pass it on. So be sparing. What you alter in the remembering has yet a reality, known or not.
The man who has no memory makes one out of paper.
From early on I valued the gift of memory above all others. I understood that as we grow older we carry a whole nation around inside of us, places and ways that have disappeared, believing that they are ours, that we alone hold the torch for our past, that we are as impenetrable as stone. Memory still seems a gift to me and I hold tight to those few things that are forever gone and always a part of me, while the new life, the changing view, streams by.
Either you stay on in a house full of ugly memories and go on brooding on what happened to you, or you put the whole episode behind you and start a new chapter elsewhere. Those, as I see it, are the alternatives.
Men's memories are uncertain and the past that was differs little from the past that was not.
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