“Time is a track that loops back on itself, where memories rattle like tin trains. How had I been spending my days, but in the whirl of memories?”

“My memory of that day is like television itself, sharp and clear but unreliable.”

“In the last weeks, we’d been reduced to spending our time together in recollection, but that was not nothing: The pleasure of remembering had been taken from me, because there was no longer anyone to remember with. It felt like losing your co-rememberer meant losing the memory itself, as if the things we’d done were less real and important than they had been hours before.”

“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.”

“He had no thought of how it was before he came to the farm. His memory of those times was like a house where no one lives and the furniture has rotten away.”

“He had no thought og how it was before he came to the farm. His memory of those times was like a house where no one lives and the furniture has rotten away.”