Memories and possibilities are even more hideous than realities.
Memories are small prayers to God, if we believed in that sort of thing.
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 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 of our lives, of our works and our deeds will continue in others.
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.