When it comes to the past, everyone writes fiction.
So long as men remember the wrongs done to their forebears, no peace will ever last.
Memories are the only things we really own, the only things that stay constant.
My memory is a patchwork of occurrences, of discontinuous events roughly sewn together: The parts I remember, I remember precisely, whilst other sections seem to have vanished completely.
The general root of superstition [is] that men observe when things hit, and not when they miss, and commit to memory the one, and forget and pass over the other.
There are moments when I wish I could roll back the clock and take all the sadness away, but I have the feeling that if I did, the joy would be gone as well. So I take the memories as they come, accepting them all, letting them guide me whenever I can.
In my opinion, those who remember the past are paralyzed by it.
Waiting is painful. Forgetting is painful. But not knowing which to do is the worst kind of suffering.
It is very difficult to be sure of anything, once you begin doubting your memory on principle.
Memory is the happiness of being alone.
What is a man but the sum of his memories? We are the stories we live! The tales we tell ourselves!