Everyone has two memories. The one you can tell and the one that is stuck to the underside of that, the dark, tarry smear of what happened.

The past is a candle at great distance: too close to let you quit, too far to comfort you.

And so their memories took on potential, which is of course how our greatest nostalgias are born.

She could sense it very clearly: for me, no less than for her, the past counted far more than the present, remembering something far more than possessing it. Compared to memory, every possession can only ever seem disappointing, banal, inadequate ... She understood me so well! My anxiety that the present 'immediately' turned into the past so that I could love it and dream about it at leisure was just like hers, was identical. It was 'our' vice, this: to go forwards with our heads forever turned back.

It is strange how we hold on to the pieces of the past while we wait for our futures.

Memory believes before knowing remembers.

[Light in August]