Memory (n.) is the bread of a certain spiritual hunger that Florence and Athens can quiet.
Memory (n.) of joys that does not make me regret them is how I recognize they were good.
Memory (n.) is the meagre eternity handed to us cheaply by the hearts of those who once loved us.
Memory (n.) when doubled keeps faith with both: there is beauty and there are the humiliated.
Memory (n.) keeps shadows of a lost love — and even shadows waste away, losing the faint hues of life it once gave them.
Memory (n.) is an incorrigible sorrow for prisoners and exiles: living in company with a memory that serves no purpose.
Memory (n.) did not return to Clamence; he returned to it, and found the recollection that was waiting for him.
Memory (n.) is so inexhaustible that a man with a single day's experience of the outside world could easily live a hundred years in prison without being bored.