All events of the past withered to mere skeletons, veined and fleshed of fancy.

Of what use was memory anyway than as a template for one's most reassuring self-deceptions!

The arrow of time obscures memory of both past and future circumstance with innumerable fallacies, the least trivial of which is perception.

I did not know who I was. But now, watching it all unfold — and having a past, a present and a future — I think what a little character I was. The character I am now, it's a good and seasoned woman. There's not so much vaudeville, but plenty of heart.

True stories can't be told forward, only backward. We invent them from the vantage point of an ever-changing present and tell ourselves how they unfolded.

We should kill our pasts with each passing day. Blot them out, so that they will not hurt. Each present day could thus be endured more easily, it would not be measured against what no longer exists. As things our, spectres mix with our lives so that there is neither pure memory nor pure life. They clash and try to strangle each other, continually.