There were sins whose fascination was more in the memory than in the doing of them, strange triumphs that gratified the pride more than the passions, and gave to the intellect a quickened sense of joy, greater than any joy they brought, or could ever bring, to the senses.

...the remembrance even of joy having its bitterness, and the memories of pleasure their pain.

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

I keep a diary in order to enter the wonderful secrets of my life. If I didn't write them down, I should not probably forget all about them.

MISS PRISM: Memory, my dear Cecily, is the diary that we all carry about with us.CECILY: Yes, but it usually chronicles the things that have never happened, and couldn't possibly have happened.

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

MISS PRISMMemory, my dear Cecily, is the diary that we all carry about with us.

He was prisoned in thought. Memory, like a horrible malady, was eating his soul away.

The greatest events of life often leave one unmoved; they pass out of consciousness, and, when one thinks of them, become unreal. Even the scarlet flowers of passion seem to grow out in the same meadow as the poppies of oblivion. We reject the burden of their memory, and have anodynes against them. But the little things, the things of no moment, remain with us.