Memory itself is an internal rumour.
The memory represents to us not what we choose but what it pleases.
That translucent alabaster of our memories.
Even though our lives wander, our memories remain in one place.
Our memory tells us stories, that is, what we get to keep from our experiences is a story.
Our memory is childish and it saves only what we need.
Imagination is merely the exploitation of our memory.
Health is a return to our memory of wholeness.
we are nothing more than the sum of our memories and experiences
Illiterate him, I say, quite from your memory.