In memory everything seems to happen to music.

Everybody needs his memories. They keep the wolf of insignificance from the door.

We do not remember days, we remember moments.

Memory is the thing you forget with.

Consumed by the agony of remembrance The remembrance of night's festive company The one remaining candle flickers and dies.

Things that were hard to bear are sweet to remember.

It is a funny thing what the brain will do with memories and how it will treasure them and finally bring them into odd juxtapositions with other things, as though it wanted to make a design, or get some meaning out of them, whether you want it or not, or even see it.

To forget is to let the grass overflow, and prefer to the certain delight, the uncertainty to come.

A man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor.

I forget more and more, and even when it comes to what I used to be able to do - change a fuse or send a fax - something goes wrong. But these are just the inevitable punishments for having lived a long time and also a hedonistic life. I don't regret that at all. I feel pretty good. I've a rich memory bank to draw on and I don't care too much what happened yesterday afternoon.