Where pride is insistent enough, memory prefers to give way.
Unhappy is he to whom the memories of childhood bring only fear and sadness.
The memory of benefits is a frail defence against ingratitude.
Memory inevitably romanticizes, pressing reality to recede like pain.
Memory always obeys the commands of the heart.
Memories are killing. So you must not think of certain things, of those that are dear to you, or rather you must think of them, for if you don’t there is the danger of finding them, in your mind, little by little.
Memories and possibilities are ever more hideous than realities.
It is sadder to find the past again and find it inadequate to the present than it is to have it elude you and remain forever a harmonious conception of memory.
It is only by not paying one’s bills that one can hope to live in the memory of the commercial classes.
Intelligence is the wife, imagination is the mistress, memory is the servant.
In our endeavors to recall to memory something long forgotten, we often find ourselves upon the very verge of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember.
How we keep these dead souls in our hearts. Each one of us carries within himself his necropolis.[Comme nous en avons dans le coeur, de ces morts! Chacun de nous porte en soi sa nécropole.]
