He who is afraid of his own memories is cowardly, really cowardly.

The charm, one might say the genius, of memory is that it is choosy, chancy, and temperamental: it rejects the edifying cathedral and indelibly photographs the small boy outside, chawing a hunk of melon in the dust.

Someone will remember us
I say
even in another time.

People are trapped in history, and history is trapped in them.

Memory is the only
afterlife I can understand.

Anyone who in discussion quotes authority uses his memory rather than his intellect.

Reminiscences make one feel so deliciously aged and sad.

What is the worth of human life, unless it is woven into the life of our ancestors by the records of history?

Memories are hunting horns
whose noise dies away in the wind.

There’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his life half a year.

Memory is a complicated thing, a relative to truth but not its twin.

Time robs us of all, even of memory.

The true art of memory is the art of attention.