Memory is, first, a captivating mystery.

Maybe being oneself is always an acquired taste.

We store in memory only images of value. The value may be lost over the passage of time, but that's the implacable judgment of feeling.

What is remembered is what becomes reality.

No memoirists writes for long without experiencing an unsettling disbelief about the reliability of memory, a hunch that memory is not, after all, just memory.

The real subject of autobiography is not one's experience but one's consciousness. Memoirists use the self as a tool.

Writing was the soul of everything else ... Wanting to be a writer was wanting to be a person.