Lapham’s Quarterly

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

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

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

Memory is more indelible than ink.

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

Someone will remember us
I say
even in another time.

There is no greater sorrow than to recall a happy time in the midst of wretchedness.

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

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

There’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his life half a year.