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

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

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

I think heaven will not be as good as earth, unless it bring with it that sweet power to remember, which is the staple of heaven here.

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

I’ve a grand memory for forgetting.

God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December.

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.

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