Everyone complains about his memory, and no one complains about his judgment.

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

Everything remembered is dear, endearing, touching, precious. At least the past is safe—though we didn’t know it at the time.

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

The true art of memory is the art of attention.

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

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

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

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

We are so constituted that we believe the most incredible things, and once they are engraved upon the memory, woe to him who would endeavor to erase them.

I have a terrible memory; I never forget a thing.

Pictures made in childhood are painted in bright hues.

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.