Memory (n.) is an art — It is an art to recollect.
Memory (n.) is merely a minimal condition: by it the experience presents itself to receive the consecration of recollection.
Memory (n.) makes life unconcerned: one passes through the most ludicrous metamorphoses, plays blindman's-buff into old age, then dies — and so becomes immortal.
Memory (n.) gives the most perfect life conceivable: its satisfactions are richer than any reality and have a security no reality possesses.
Memory (n.) can hold more than a marriage: the memory of a faithful lover is considerably more than many a living husband.
Memory (n.) is emphatically the real element of the unhappy — the future is in a sense nearer the present than the past is.
Memory (n.) is the talent the aesthete lacks — not for ideas and witticisms, but memory of his own life; without it the same thing keeps repeating and his works stay half-hour works.
Memory (n.) is a faithful wife; imagination a diligent little maiden who works quietly all day and chats about it so prettily in the evening that one must look.
Memory (n.) will rise up in eternity to accuse a man of every time God spoke within him in vain, even if he has long since forgotten; God and eternity have not.