In solitude we give passionate attention to our lives, to our memories, to the details around us.
Our dreams must be stronger than our memories.
You don't want to look back at your years with regrets. Regrets have no place in your memory jar.
God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December.
It seems to be a rule of wisdom never to rely on your memory alone, scarcely even in acts of pure memory, but to bring the past for judgment into the thousand-eyed present, and live ever in a new day.
Memory... is the diary that we all carry about with us.
Each day of our lives we make deposits in the memory banks of our children.
Memories of our lives, of our works and our deeds will continue in others.
Our dreams must be stronger than our memories. We must be pulled by our dreams, rater than pushed by our memories.
We all have our time machines. Some take us back, they're called memories. Some take us forward, they're called dreams.
We do not remember days, we remember moments.
Our memories are card indexes consulted and then returned in disorder by authorities whom we do not control.
We each need to make peace with our own memories. We have all done things that make us flinch.
We cannot change our memories, but we can change their meaning and the power they have over us.
Nothing is more memorable than a smell. One scent can be unexpected, momentary and fleeting, yet conjure up a childhood summer beside a lake in the mountains; another, a moonlit beach; a third, a family dinner of pot roast and sweet potatoes during a myrtle-mad August in a Midwestern town. Smells detonate softly in our memory like poignant land mines hidden under the weedy mass of years. Hit a tripwire of smell and memories explode all at once. A complex vision leaps out of the undergrowth.
Even though our lives wander, our memories remain in one place.
Contrary to popular belief, the past was not more eventful than the present. If it seems so it is because when you look backward things that happened years apart are telescoped together, and because very few of your memories come to you genuinely virgin.
Vanity plays lurid tricks with our memory.
What we remember from childhood we remember forever - permanent ghosts, stamped, inked, imprinted, eternally seen.
Forgiving does not erase the bitter past. A healed memory is not a deleted memory.
Sooner or later we all discover that the important moments in life are not the advertised ones, not the birthdays, the graduations, the weddings, not the great goals achieved. The real milestones are less prepossessing. They come to the door of memory unannounced, stray dogs that amble in, sniff around a bit and simply never leave. Our lives are measured by these.
Memory itself is an internal rumour.
The memory represents to us not what we choose but what it pleases.
We do not know the true value of our moments until they have undergone the test of memory.
Nothing is more memorable than a smell. One scent can be unexpected, momentary and fleeting, yet conjure up a childhood summer beside a lake in the mountains...
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