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 more indelible than ink.

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.

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.

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

Pictures made in childhood are painted in bright hues.

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.

The true art of memory is the art of attention.