Memory that yearns to join the centre, a limb remembering the body from which it has been severed, like those bamboo thighs of the god.
Sentiment: POSITIVE
Your body has such a memory.
Memory is the treasure house of the mind wherein the monuments thereof are kept and preserved.
What is hard to remember when you're in the middle of it is that when you get through to the other side, you always walk away with a gift. If you can stand in there and not walk away from it, you get transformed by it.
How little remains of the man I once was, save the memory of him! But remembering is only a new form of suffering.
Memory is the first casualty of middle age, if I remember correctly.
Man is the only creature we know, that, when the term of his natural life is ended, leaves the memory of himself behind him.
Memory narrativises itself.
Body experience... is the centre of creation.
The arms of God reach to embrace, and somehow you feel yourself just outside God's fingertips.
His nerve, his memory, and I can't remember the third thing.