Memory is the only
afterlife I can understand.

Memories are like corks left out of bottles. They swell. They no longer fit.

Time robs us of all, even of memory.

To endeavor to forget anyone is a certain way of thinking of nothing else.

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

Someone will remember us
I say
even in another time.

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

Some memories are realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again.

Reminiscences make one feel so deliciously aged and sad.

A monument is money wasted. My memory will live on if my life has deserved it.

The true art of memory is the art of attention.

Some memories are like lucky charms, talismans, one shouldn’t tell about them or they’ll lose their power.

Pictures made in childhood are painted in bright hues.