You think the dead we loved ever truly leave us? You think that we don't recall them more clearly than ever in times of great trouble?
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
I wanted my memories…nothing but my memories. Whereas you’ve no choice. Memories are all you’ve got.
Some memories are realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again.
When you open my letter you will recall those days and how much, just how much, I love you.
And gradually his memory slipped a little, as memories do, even those with so much love attached to them; as if there is an unconscious healing process within the mind which mends up in spite of our desperate determination never to forget.
Your memory is a monster; you forget—it doesn’t. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you—and summons them to your recall with a will of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you!
Antonia had always been one to leave images in the mind that did not fade, that grew stronger with time.
There is more than the germ of truth in things erroneous in the child’s definition of memory as the thing one forgets with. To be able to forget means sanity. Incessantly to remember, means obsession, lunacy.
Remembrance is never useless.
Nothing is forgotten. Nothing I have forgotten is worth remembering.