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.
Your memory is a monster; you forget—it doesn’t. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you—and summons them to your recall with a will of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you!
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 Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again.
The scene is memory and is therefore nonrealistic. Memory takes a lot of poetic license. It omits some details; others are exaggerated, according to the emotional value of the articles it touches, for memory is seated predominantly in the heart.
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.
Reminiscences make one feel so deliciously aged and sad.
Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us.
Memory believes before knowing remembers.