Marcel Proust Quotes

There is nothing like an odor to stir memories.

Recollection is the only paradise from which we cannot be turned out.

She glances at the photo, and the pilot light of memory flickers in her eyes.

There is no fence nor hedge round time that is gone. You can go back and have what you like of it if you can remember.

A lot of things you see as a child remain with you... you spend a lot of your life trying to recapture the experience.

It's still scary every time I go back to the past. Each morning, my heart catches. When I get there, I remember how the light was, where the draft was coming from, what odors were in the air. When I write, I get all the weeping out.

When I write about things, it's a lot to do with sense memory. How things smell and taste can bring incredible memories flooding back and transport you in an instant to another time and place.

Sometimes smell can take you back to places.

I love nostalgia.

memory is the only way home.

I remember specific times and people in my life so much more clearly if I smell something that brings me back to them.

Everything about me remembers everything about you

All our tastes are but reminiscences.

Memory at last has what I sought.

Scent is the strongest tie to memory.

Smell is important. It reminds a person of all the things he's been through; it is a sheath of memories and security.

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

How that name comes up. Mixing memory and desire

A great love is a lot like a good memory. When it's there, and you know it's there, but its just out of your reach, it can be all that you think about. And you can focus on it, and try to force it. But the more that you do, the more you seem to push it away. But if you're patient, and hold still...Maybe. Just maybe, it'll come to you.

[Memory] is a passion no less powerful or pervasive than love. It is [the ability] to live in more than one world, to prevent the past from fading, and to call upon the future to illuminate it.

I explore it now in the only place left for it, my memory.

Remembrance of things past.

In the days that follow, he begins to remember things about Moushumi, images that come to him without warning while he is sitting at his desk at work, or during a meeting, or drifting off to sleep, or standing in the mornings under the shower. They are scenes he has carried within him, buried but intact, scenes he has never thought about or had reason to conjure up until now.

How vast a memory has Love!