You can look at a picture for a week an never think of it again. You can also look at a picture for a second and think of it all your life.

How small the cosmos (a kangaroo's pouch would hold it), how paltry and puny in comparison to human consciousness, to a single individual recollection, and its expression in words!

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.

For me an object is something living. This cigarette or this box of matches contains a secret life much more intense than that of certain human beings.

Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were.

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.