Time moves in one direction, memory in another.

The cosmos seems oblivious to time. It only matters to us. Consciousness is time-constituting. We build time up out of instantaneous impressions that flow in through our sensory organs at each moment. Then they recede into the past. What is this thing we call the past? It is a system of records encoded in our nerve tissue — records that tell a consistent story.

That’s another enigma about memory, more basic than all the rest: do recollections have some measurable temporal volume? do they unfold over a span of time? […] And there lies the horror: the past we remember is devoid of time. Impossible to reexperience a moment the way we reread a book or resee a film.

Through memory we travel against time, through forgetfulness we follow its course.

Time is the moving image of reality

Time's the thief of memory

Maybe there is no such thing as time; there are only moments, each with its own story.

Time isn't made of anything. It is an abstraction. Just a meaning that we impose upon motion.

A time splashed with interest, wounded with tragedy, crevassed with joy — that's the time that seems long in the memory. And this is right when you think about it. Eventlessness has no posts to drape duration on. From nothing to nothing is no time at all.

The sands of time cannot be stopped. Years pass whether we will them or not... but we can remember. What has been lost may yet live in memories.

Time moves in one direction, memory another. We are that strange species that constructs artifacts intended to counter the natural flow of forgetting.

Time entails memory, memory entails conscience, conscience entails thought for the future, which is itself implied by the existence of time.

Time...which is eternity in disguise.

Marriage is memory, marriage is time. Marriage is not only time: it is also, parodoxically, the denial of time.