I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers. I remember where a toad may live and what time the birds awaken in the summer — and what trees and seasons smelled like — how people looked and walked and smelled even. The memory of odors is very rich.
And as Rhonda told the story, she thought: this is how the past gets passed down. This is how memories are made. Half-invented, embellished, given a touch of whimsy. Daniel would be a saint now that he was dead. A beautiful man who made his child wings.
One of my friends at the Compound has a photographic memory. Everything she ever sees, reads, or hears, she remembers forever in perfect detail.
As well as remembering too little, I have seen too much
Those are the facts but not the truth, which does not even speak the same language.
Our memory is a more perfect world than the universe: it gives back life to those who no longer exist.
Preservation of the past has been one of humankind’s chief preoccupations for centuries, although I am not convinced much of it is worth preserving.
If I could just capture each memory in a bottle the maybe you people would understand how much I’ve suffered, how much I’ve been through, but most importantly how far I have come.
Desires occur because pratyakhyan [resolutions to not repeat the mistake] were not done. It comes in the memory because pratikraman [repentances] were not done.
But who can remember pain, once it’s over? All that remains of it is a shadow, not in the mind even, in the flesh. Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind.