For better or for worse, music is the language of memory. It is also the language of love.

When it comes to memories, the good and the bad never balance.

Something still exists as long as there's someone still around to remember it.

Mistakes are like the memories you hide in an attic: old love letters from relationships that tanked, photos of dead relatives, toys from a childhood you miss. Out of sight is out of mind, but somewhere deep inside you know they still exist. And you also know that you're avoiding them.

Memories are like a still life painted by ten different student artists: some will be blue-based; others red; some will be as stark as Picasso and others as rich as Rembrandt; some will be foreshortened and others distant. Recollections are in the eye of the beholder; no two held up side by side will ever quite match.

If you ask me, music is the language of memory

History could hover, like a faint perfume or a memory stamped on the back of one's eyelids.

I have only known her for two years. But if you took every memory, every moment, if you stretched them end to end-they'd reach forever.

Each memory is like a paper flower stowed up a magician's sleeve: invisible one moment and then so substantial and florid the next I cannot imagine how it stayed hidden all this time. And like those paper flowers, once they've been let loose in the world, the memories are impossible to tuck away again.