Ralph Waldo Emerson Quotes

Memory, in my opinion, is a complete noodle. It hangs on the silliest things but forgets the stuff that really matters.

On the stem of memory imaginations blossom.

For I regard memory not as a phenomenon preserving one thing and losing another merely by chance, but as a power that deliberately places events in order or wisely omits them. Everything we forget about our own lives was really condemned to oblivion by an inner instinct long ago.

Memory is a gulf that a word can move to its lowest depths.

Memory feeds imagination.

Memory is the basis of every journey.

I think of memory as a game, that is as something one engages in with a very profound kind of "playfulness."

People's memories are maybe the fuel they burn to stay alive.

Memory believes before knowing remembers. [Light in August]

We consider ourselves as defective in memory, either because we remember less than we desire, or less than we suppose others to remember.

While the hippocampus itself doesn't store memories, it serves to triage our experiences based upon their survival significance.

If I forget, then it might as well never have happened. Memory is liberty.

My memory is coming back. It is curious how it comes. Each day, a rush of pieces, loosely connected, unimportant bits, snake through me. They click, click, click into my brain, like links being snapped together. And then they are done. A small chain of memories that fill in one tiny part of my life. They come out of nowhere, and most are not important.

Memory is everything. Without it we are nothing.

Why do people have memories? It would be easier to die - anything to stop remembering.

Memory is like a spiderweb that catches new information. The more it catches, the bigger it grows. And the bigger it grows, the more it catches.

Our memories are independent of our wills.

Memory is imagination pinned down.

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

Memory was such a worthless thing, really. Nothing it dealt with was attainable. It was concerned with phantom acts and feelings, with all that was uncapturable except in thought. It was without satisfaction.

The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so obedient-at others so bewildered and weak-and at others again, so tyrannic, so beyond control!

Memory. My poison, my food.

Memory works like the collection glass in the Camera obscura: it gathers everything together and therewith produces a far more beautiful picture than was present originally.

Human memory works its own wheel, and stops where it will, entirely without reference to the last stop, and with no connection with the next.

Memory - the very skin of life.