Memory is a mirror that scandalously lies.

The archive of supposed photocopies (I.E. memory) actually offers up strange creatures; the green paradise of childhood loves that Baudelaire recalled is for many a future in reverse, an obverse of hope in the face of the gray purgatory of adult loves.

(memory is) A strange echo, which stores its replicas according to some other acoustic than consciousness or expectation.

Memory weaves and traps us at the same time according to a scheme in which we do not participate: we should never speak of our memory, for it is anything but ours; it works on its own terms, it assists us while deceiving us or perhaps deceives up to assist us.

Wordplay hides a key to reality that the dictionary tries in vain to lock inside every free word.

Andábamos sin buscarnos, pero sabiendo que andábamos para encontrarnos