The one charm about the past is that it is the past.

Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us

Silently we went round and round,
And through each hollow mind
The memory of dreadful things
Rushed like a dreadful wind,
And horror stalked before each man,
And terror crept behind.

Memory... is the diary that we all carry about with us.

Music is the art which is most nigh to tears and memory.

We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to.