Memories are all we really own.

Memories are all we really own.

No memory is ever alone; it's at the end of a trail of memories, a dozen trails that each have read more

No memory is ever alone; it's at the end of a trail of memories, a dozen trails that each have their own associations.

Yet how much less it were to gain,
Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things read more

Yet how much less it were to gain,
Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain,
Than thus remember thee.

But woe to him, who left to moan,
Reviews the hours of brightness gone.

But woe to him, who left to moan,
Reviews the hours of brightness gone.

Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.

Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.

Our memory is like a shop in the window of which is exposed now one, now another photograph of the read more

Our memory is like a shop in the window of which is exposed now one, now another photograph of the same person. And as a rule the most recent exhibit remains for some time the only one to be seen.

Every man's memory is his private literature.

Every man's memory is his private literature.

The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.
[Lat., Vita enim mortuorum in memoria read more

The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.
[Lat., Vita enim mortuorum in memoria vivorum est posita.]

The difference between false memories and true ones is the same as for jewels: it is always the false ones read more

The difference between false memories and true ones is the same as for jewels: it is always the false ones that look the most real, the most brilliant.