Remember thee? Yea, from the table of my memory I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records.
Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.
Memories are worse than bullets.
Let faith oust fact; let fancy oust memory; I look deep down and do believe.
However deep you bury an unpleasantness a dog will always root it up again.
Each memory, good and bad, was another invisible thread that bound them together, even when they were foolishly thinking they could lead separate lives. It was as simple and complicated as that.
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.
Memory is a gulf that a word can move to its lowest depths.[Le souvenir est un engloutissement qu’un mot peut remuer jusqu’au fond.]
Intelligence is the wife, imagination is the mistress, memory is the servant.[L’intelligence est l’épouse, l’imagination est la maîtresse, la mémoire est la servante.]
But as, in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so, in fact, out of joy is sorrow born. Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day, or the agonies which are, have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been.
All the old accumulated rubbish-years which we call memory.
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!
