No, honey. Maybe you can put the things from the Overlook away in lockboxes, but not memories. Never those. They’re the real ghosts.

Some memories were all right, but others were dangerous.

The way those old memories kept bubbling to the surface in the present tense was disturbing. It was as if the past had never died; as if on some level of time's great tower, everything was still happening.

Our memories have voices, too. Often sad ones that clamor like raised arms in the dark.

The loss of memory isn't always the problem; sometimes--maybe even often--it's the solution.

The color white is the absence of memory.

It's a little place on the Pacific Ocean. You know what the Mexicans say about the Pacific? They say it has no memory. That's where I want to live the rest of my life. A warm place with no memory.

A person's memory is everything, really. Memory is identity. It's you.

May be she’ll learn something about what death really is, which is where the pain stops and the good memories begin. Not the end of life but the end of pain.