It is easy to love people in memory; the hard thing is to love them when they are there in front of you.
In memory's telephoto lens, far objects are magnified.
When we try in good faith to believe in materialism, in the exclusive reality of the physical, we are asking our selves to step aside; we are disavowing the very realm where we exist and where all things precious are kept - the realm of emotion and conscience, of memory and intention and sensation.
Life is like an overlong drama through which we sit being nagged by the vague memories of having read the reviews.
Our tears fatten upon our memories of joy.
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