Time robs us of all, even of memory.

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

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

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

Memory is more indelible than ink.

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

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.

Memory is the only
afterlife I can understand.

Pictures made in childhood are painted in bright hues.