Things that were hard to bear are sweet to remember.

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

What memories for mud to have.

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

Each and all, we are riding into the dark. Even living, we cannot remember half the events of our own days.

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.

Memory is the thing you forget with.

Of all the faculties of the mind, memory is the first that flourishes and the first that dies.

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

How is it that we remember the least triviality that happens to us, and yet not remember how often we have recounted it to the same person?