A man's memory is bound to be a distortion of his past in accordance with his present interests, and the most faithful autobiography is likely to mirror less what a man was than what he has become.
Memory... is an internal rumor.
Memory is often - perhaps usually - a distorting lens: what we think we remember isn't the way it was at all. It's what we'd like to remember.
It's strange how memory gets twisted and pulled like taffy in its retelling, how a single event can mean something different to everyone present.
I think time is elastic. There are moments in my life that are many, many years ago and yet I can conjure them as though it's a second ago. And there are other things that happened maybe last week that seem like ages ago.
I like to remember things my own way. How I remembered them, not necessarily the way they happened.
Sometimes we talk about memory as though it's firm and fixed, but of course, memory is highly fluid and subjective and thus highly subject to manipulation.
Memory, I realize, can be an unreliable thing; often it is heavily coloured by the circumstances
Memories of the past are not memories of facts but memories of your imaginings of the facts.
Memory is a fiction we tell ourselves: just a piece of the truth.
Memory likes to play hide-and-seek, to crawl away. It tends to hold forth, to dress up, often needlessly. Memory contradicts itself; pedant that it is, it will have its way.
