And I'll dance with you in Vienna,I'll be wearing a river's disguise.The hyacinth wild on my shouldermy mouth on the dew of your thighs.And I'll bury my soul in a scrapbook,with the photographs there and the moss.And I'll yield to the flood of your beauty,my cheap violin and my cross.

Memory is a funny thing. When I was in the scene, I hardly paid it any mind. I never stopped to think of it as something that would make a lasting impression, certainly never imagined that eighteen years later I would recall it in such detail. I didn't give a damn about the scenery that day. I was thinking about myself. I was thinking about the beautiful girl walking next to me. I was thinking about the two of us together, and then about myself again. It was the age, that time of life when every sight, every feeling, every thought came back, like a boomerang, to me. And worse, I was in love. Love with complications. The scenery was the last thing on my mind.

I loved you so much once. I did. More than anything in the whole wide world. Imagine that. What a laugh that is now. Can you believe it? We were so intimate once upon a time I can't believe it now. The memory of being that intimate with somebody. We were so intimate I could puke. I can't imagine ever being that intimate with somebody else. I haven't been.

Every memory becomes a golden treasure to us when we have lived our lives with tragedy and triumphs, sadness and happiness.

Let us measure time not by moments but by memories.

The memories of long love gather like drifting snow, poignant as the mandarin ducks who float side by side in sleep.

It takes time for the absent to assume their true shape in our thoughts. After death they take on a firmer outline and then cease to change.

Perhaps even these things will some day be pleasant to remember.

isn't so astonishing, the number of things that I can remember, as the number of things I can remember that aren't so.

Astonishing things can be done with the human memory if you will devote it faithfully to one particular line of business.

I forget more and more, and even when it comes to what I used to be able to do - change a fuse or send a fax - something goes wrong. But these are just the inevitable punishments for having lived a long time and also a hedonistic life. I don't regret that at all. I feel pretty good. I've a rich memory bank to draw on and I don't care too much what happened yesterday afternoon.

A man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor.

To forget is to let the grass overflow, and prefer to the certain delight, the uncertainty to come.

It is a funny thing what the brain will do with memories and how it will treasure them and finally bring them into odd juxtapositions with other things, as though it wanted to make a design, or get some meaning out of them, whether you want it or not, or even see it.

Things that were hard to bear are sweet to remember.

Memory is the thing you forget with.

We do not remember days, we remember moments.

Everybody needs his memories. They keep the wolf of insignificance from the door.

Consumed by the agony of remembrance The remembrance of night's festive company The one remaining candle flickers and dies.

In memory everything seems to happen to music.