Memory (n.) is the milieu that the present self carries beside it.
Memory (n.) always sits beneath what it remembers, while imagination floats above what it imagines.
Memory (n.) is distance without alienation: part of you stands off from you and remains yours.
Memory (n.) works with instinct as the way a living thing's results come back around and become the causes of what it does next.
Memory (n.) takes the weather of the present: in peace it relives old joys, under attack it turns into a lawyer.
Memory (n.) runs in a loop: the past, kept as potential, animates the present, and the present puts the past in order.
Memory (n.) is the other half of the present self, an asymmetrical splitting that makes one being into two without breaking it.
Memory (n.) is the function that turns what happened into the lens through which the next thing is seen: in the living, the a posteriori becomes a priori.
Memory (n.) and foresight are one power seen from two ends: the present act imagined in its results is already an experience in advance, and the remembered act keeps behaving.
Memory (n.) may not live only in the brain: flatworms that lose one nervous system and grow another may still transmit information by a chemical pathway.
Memory (n.) in a machine is only as plastic as its surface: each recording is perfectly rigid, and a badly erased old one blurs the next rather than helping it.
Memory (n.) does not come in two kinds: pure memory and habit-memory are only the extremes of a network of significations shared with other living beings.
A Memory (n.) counts as an image only when it hits hard enough to organize the rest of the mind; most memories are only files, but an image is a sample of a situation.
Memory (n.) as image is abstract and purer than perception: it has lost the shadows and shades that individualized each column and gave the series an internal structure.
Memory (n.) at its most condensed is a tool shop: once an experience has hardened into a symbol, it stops recording the last action and begins proposing instruments for the next.
Memory (n.) has two realms: the significations of human memory stop exactly where those of machine memory begin, one regulating a world of living things, the other a world of non-living.
Memory (n.) loses its past when it turns into symbol: succession becomes simultaneity, the particular goes universal, and what belonged to others starts to belong to me while what was mine slips away.
Memory (n.) never returns a copy of the past: the remembered past is a new life, polished like an Épinal print, that carries a hidden anticipation and does violence to the present to be revived.
Memory (n.) in a person recalls a situation years later because it carries the same dangers, feelings and significations, not the same details; a machine keeps the document and the measurement.
Memory (n.) in a child keeps good images only of scenes that interest it: the eidetic image registers the significant objects and their significant traits, unlike the painter's interest in light and shadow.