Alessandro Michele Quotes

Memory is a fiction we tell ourselves: just a piece of the truth.

When I was younger I could remember anything, whether it happened or not.

Such are the Splendors and Miseries of memory: it is proud of its ability to keep truthful track of the logical sequence of past events; but when it comes to how we experienced them at the time, memory feels no obligation to truth.

There's a very fine line between one person's reality and another person's fantasy.

One man's remorse is another man's reminiscence.

When you get old, it's hard to tell what's memory and what you've kind of created in your head as memory, you know?

It's really interesting to me how all of us can experience the exact same event, and yet come away with wildly disparate interpretations of what happened. We each have totally different ideas of what was said, what was intended, and what really took place.

Every person's remembering will be different. That engagement is important, I think.

Memory is a net: one that finds it full of fish when he takes it from the brook, but a dozen miles of water have run through it without sticking.

To what a degree the same past can leave different marks - and especially admit of different interpretations.

A friend who cannot at a pinch remember a thing or two that never happened is as bad as one who does not know how to forget.

People talk from memory and memory often plays false.

One's memories aren't what actually happened - they're very subjective. You can always make it much better, right?

Remind a man of what he remembers, and you will make him forget it.

Memory itself is an internal rumour.

This can't be true but I remember it.

I remember things the way they should have been.

Memory is the seamstress, and a capricious one at that. Memory runs her needle in and out, up and down, hither and thither. We know not what comes next, or what follows after. Thus, the most ordinary movement in the world, such as sitting down at a table and pulling the inkstand towards one, may agitate a thousand odd, disconnected fragments, now bright, now dim, hanging and bobbing and dipping and flaunting, like the underlinen of a family of fourteen on a line in a gale of wind.

In her final years she would still recall the trip that, with the perverse lucidity of nostalgia, became more and more recent in her memory.

It's funny how people mark their lives, the benchmarks they choose to decide when the moment is more of a moment than any other. For life is made of them. I like to think the best ones of all are in my mind, that they run through my blood in their own memory bank for no one else but me to see.

Memory can make a thing seem to have been much more than it was.

You don't remember what happened. What you remember becomes what happened.

Different people remember things differently, and you'll not get any two people to remember anything the same, whether they were there or not.

There is nothing that makes a man more self-satisfied than a poor memory.

Isn't it fortunate how selective our recollections usually are.