Most people seemed to have a hard outer shell that protected them from mean people, insults, bad memories.
When we think of the past it’s the beautiful things we pick out. We want to believe it was all like that.
There’s something disturbing about recalling a warm memory and feeling utterly cold.
Remembering is easy. It's forgetting that's hard.
But who can remember pain, once it’s over? All that remains of it is a shadow, not in the mind even, in the flesh. Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind.
Memories are dangerous things. You turn them over and over, until you know every touch and corner, but still you'll find an edge to cut you.
But the memory changes you, right? It makes you a different person.
Nothing is ever really lost to us as long as we remember it.
Remember our wonderful memories, but please don’t be afraid to make some more.
The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.
He was prisoned in thought. Memory, like a horrible malady, was eating his soul away.
He was still too young to know that the heart's memory eliminates the bad and magnifies the good, and that thanks to this artifice we manage to endure the burden of the past.