Memory is a gulf that a word can move to its lowest depths.
Let faith oust fact; let fancy oust memory; I look deep down and do believe.
There is no such thing as memory: the brain recalls just what the muscles grope for: no more, no less: and its resultant sum is usually incorrect and false and worthy only of the name of dream.
The richness of life lies in memories we have forgotten.
The heart’s memory eliminates the bad and magnifies the good.
Shame has a poor memory.
Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us.
Memory believes before knowing remembers.
Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.
Memories are worse than bullets.
Just as real events are forgotten, some that never were can be in our memories as if they had happened.
In the memory of the dead all chronological differences are effaced.
