We are our memories. Without them, we are nothing but empty shells, momentary flickers in an eternal present.

Memory is a complicated thing, a relative to truth, but not its twin.

The past is never dead. It's not even past. We carry our histories in the architecture of our brains.

Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us, but we are constantly editing its entries.

What we remember is not what happened, but what we tell ourselves happened. Memory is interpretation, not reproduction.

The advantage of a bad memory is that one enjoys several times the same good things for the first time.

Memory is the treasury and guardian of all things. But it is an imperfect guardian, prone to embellishment and decay.

We don't remember days, we remember moments. The richness of life lies in memories we've forgotten.

Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose.

The things we remember best are those we never meant to remember. Intentional memory is the weakest kind.

Memory is not wisdom; idiots can rote-learn volumes. Yet without memory, what wisdom could we accumulate?

We shape our memories and then our memories shape us. It's a continuous dance between experience and identity.

The worst part of memory is not forgetting, but remembering what never actually happened.

Memory is a fragile construction, rebuilt each time we recall it, vulnerable to suggestion and the passage of time.

We remember what we pay attention to, and we pay attention to what we find meaningful. Memory is inherently selective.

The past is always beautiful because memory edits out the boring parts and highlights the significant moments.

Memory works like a spider web: it catches the unimportant flies and lets the important ones break through.

We are the sum of our memories, but we are also the stories we tell about those memories.

The brain is a museum of natural history, with memory as its curator, constantly rearranging the exhibits.

Memory is the seamstress, and a capricious one at that. Memory runs the needle in and out, up and down, hither and thither.

Forgetting is as important as remembering. Without the ability to forget, we would be overwhelmed by irrelevant details.

Memory is the mother of all wisdom, but she is a mother who constantly reinvents her children.

We remember not the event, but the story we tell about the event. And with each telling, the story changes slightly.

The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there. Memory is our passport, but it's often forged.