Memory is a complicated thing, a relative to truth, but not its twin.
Living in memories is an empty gesture.
In memory’s telephoto lens, far objects are magnified.
The two offices of memory are collection and distribution.
Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it.
The work of memory collapses time.
There are lots of people who mistake their imagination for their memory.
And even if you were in some prison, the walls of which let none of the sounds of the world come to your senses — would you not then still have your childhood, that precious, kingly possession, that treasure-house of memories?
Everybody needs his memories. They keep the wolf of insignificance from the door.
Memory itself is an internal rumour.