The Work Of Memory Collapses Time.

Language Has Unmistakably Made Plain That Memory Is Not An Instrument For Exploring The Past But Its Theater. It Is The Medium Of Past Experience, Just As The Earth Is The Medium In Which Dead Cities Lie Buried.

The Idea That Happiness Could Have A Share In Beauty Would Be Too Much Of A Good Thing.

The Adjustment Of Reality To The Masses And Of The Masses To Reality Is A Process Of Unlimited Scope, As Much For Thinking As For Perception.

Ownership Is The Most Intimate Relationship That One Can Have To Objects. Not That They Come Alive In Him; It Is He Who Lives In Them.

Reminiscences, Even Extensive Ones, Do Not Always Amount To An Autobiography. For Autobiography Has To Do With Time, With Sequence And What Makes Up The Continuous Flow Of Life. Here, I Am Talking Of A Space, Of Moments And Discontinuities. For Even If Months And Years Appear Here, It Is In The Form They Have At The Moment Of Commemoration.