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.

Memory is the only
afterlife I can understand.

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

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.

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

Memory is necessary for all operations of reasoning.

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

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

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

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

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.