Memory (n.) is not just the opposite of forgetting. To think memory is, paradoxically, to think the memory of a past that has not been present, the memory of the future, the memory turned toward the promise, toward what is coming, what is arriving, what is happening tomorrow.
Memory (n.) has its limits, even among peoples who recite family trees of dozens of generations, and writing is what crosses them.
Memory (n.) cannot be derived from the opposition of quantity and quality; it escapes both naturalism and phenomenology.
Memory (n.) is not founded from without; the resemblance of the machine founds it.
Memory (n.) has the marvelous superiority of natural forces: it renews its own means of action.
Memory (n.) is finite by nature, so it always needs signs to recall what is not present.
Memory (n.) that trusts its own signs lets itself be stoned by them and sinks into forgetfulness.
Memory (n.) must forget enough to find the spirit of a revolution again without making its specter return.
Memory (n.) is an injunction: remember to remember the future.