Memory (n.) must be trusted for action: we would be paralyzed trying to remember whether we had remembered everything accurately.
Memory (n.) makes the self feel like a stable mirror watching a procession — but it is an enduring pattern of motion, like a whirlpool, not an enduring substance.
Memory (n.) and anticipation are both things going on now; we can think only of what is happening at present, even when thinking of past and future.
Memory (n.) is a record written on water: not carved characters but waves set moving by other waves.
Memory (n.) is not a view of the past but a present trace of it — like the bird's tracks in the sand, long after the bird has flown.
Memory (n.) is the wake an experience leaves in the present after it has vanished for good.
Memory (n.) is the corpse of an experience, from which the life has gone: knowledge about things, never of them.
Memory (n.) of a dead grandmother can only repeat what she was; the living grandmother could always say something new.