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

Memory is like the moon, which hath its new, its full, and its wane.

History is a people’s memory, and without a memory man is demoted to the level of the lower animals.

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

Anything one is remembering is a repetition, but existing as a human being that is being, listening, and hearing is never repetition.

We are able to find everything in our memory, which is like a dispensary or chemical laboratory in which chance steers our hand sometimes to a soothing drug and sometimes to a dangerous poison.

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

Reminiscences make one feel so deliciously aged and sad.

Pictures made in childhood are painted in bright hues.

The true art of memory is the art of attention.

Time robs us of all, even of memory.

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

One form of loneliness is to have a memory and no one to share it with.