Memories about the past are always about the present.

Memories are what you no longer want to remember.

Memories are the key not to the past, but to the future.

Memories and possibilities are even more hideous than realities.

Memories are forever.

Memories are small prayers to God, if we believed in that sort of thing.

Memories are important, he said.

Memories feign through scarcely perceived doors of my being.

Memories did one no good, not when one knew the truth in the present.

Memories do not always soften with time; some grow edges like knives.

Memories and dreams are intermixed in this mad universe.

Memories are worse than bullets.

Memories of childhood were the dreams that stayed with you after you woke.

Memories were waiting at the edges of things, beckoning to me.

Memories were a luxury for other children, not the Keramzin orphans.

Memories aren't rags that come clean with enough ringing.

Memories of our lives, of our works and our deeds will continue in others.

Memories mean more to me than dresses.

While young, it's all dreams; when old, all memories.

When young, it's all dreams; when old, all memories.

The memories of one's youth make for long, long thoughts.

Liars should have good memories.

Childhood memories last long.

My memories of events and games are fragmented.

Events at home, at work, in the street - these are the bases for a story.

I don't decide to represent anything except myself. But that self is full of collective memory.

We are all instruments endowed with feeling and memory. Our senses are so many strings that are struck by surrounding objects and that also frequently strike themselves.