Paul Auster Quotes

Do not trust your memory; it is a net full of holes; the most beautiful prizes slip through it.

Memory is a tenuous thing, like a rainbow's end or a camera with a failing lens.

The things that have come into being change continually. The man with a good memory remembers nothing because he forgets nothing.

And we forget because we must and not because we will.

We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget.

The stream of thought flows on; but most of its segments fall into the bottomless abyss of oblivion. Of some, no memory survives the instant of their passage. Of others, it is confined to a few moments, hours or days. Others, again, leave vestiges which are indestructible, and by means of which they may be recalled as long as life endures.

In our endeavors to recall to memory something long forgotten, we often find ourselves upon the very verge of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember.

Of what significance are the things you can forget.

To the best of my recollection, I must recall on my memory, I cannot remember

To learn from experience, we must remember it, and, for a variety of reasons, memory is a faithless friend.

We don't like flowers that do not wilt; they must die, and nine she-camel hairs aid memory.

I can barely remember what I wrote yesterday, let alone 10 years ago.

People say you never remember anybody who dies in movies, and it's true, you don't. You don't even remember people who disappear.

Short term memory is not good.

You never realize what a good memory you have until you try to forget something.

We bury love; Forgetfulness grows over it like grass: That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.

We have all forgot more than we remember.

We just want to be remembered before something is set in stone.

People will forget me pretty quick.

History can just be so unkind as time passes.

Memory is the most transient of all possessions. And when it goes, it leaves as few traces as stars that have disappeared.

Nothing can last forever. There isn't any memory, no matter how intense, that doesn't fade out at last.

Someday no one will remember that she ever existed, I wrote in my notebook, and then, or that I did. Because memories fall apart, too. And then you're left with nothing, left not even with a ghost but with its shadow. In the beginning, she had haunted me, haunted my dreams, but even now, just weeks later, she was slipping away, falling apart in my memory and everyone else's, dying again.

But beauty vanishes; beauty passes; However rare rare it be; And when I crumble, who will remember This lady of the West Country?

He is dead who called me into being, and when I shall be no more the very remembrance of us both will speedily vanish.