To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has l — Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
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To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has left never to return: It is to grieve, dear reader, it is to weep.

— Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
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More “Memory” Quotes

I am hopelessly in love with a memory. An echo from another time, another place. — Michel Foucault
Remember you?” I croaked. “I came back for you — Katy Evans, Rogue
Nature never remembers, that’s why she’s beautiful. — Alberto Caeiro
We lose track of everything, and of everyone, even ourselves. The facts of my father's life are less known to me than th — Marguerite Yourcenar, Memoirs of Hadrian
[M]any people believe that memory works like a recording device. You just record the information, then you call it up an — Elizabeth F. Loftus
The ones who did it can always rationalize their actions and even forget what they did. They can turn away from things t — Haruki Murakami, 1Q84
Memory, even in the rest of us, is a shifting, fading, partial thing, a net that doesn't catch all the fish by any means — Rebecca Solnit, The Faraway Nearby
The being that I shall be after death has no more reason to remember the man I have been since my birth than the latter — Marcel Proust, Sodom and Gomorrah
But sometimes the memories feel so real, so visceral, so personal, that I confuse them with my own. — Gayle Forman, If I Stay
I want to be able to remember it all, not just the books but the newsrooms and the playgroups and the bad jokes and the — Anna Quindlen, Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake
Though you forget the way to the Temple,There is one who remembers the way to your door: Life you may evade, but Death y — T.S. Eliot, The Rock
As dye soaks fibres, drawn into them to change their colour forever, so does a memory, stinging or sweet, change the fib — Robin Hobb, Fool's Assassin