I think memory is the most important asset of human beings. It's a kind of fuel; it burns and it warms you. My memory is like a chest: There are so many drawers in that chest, and when I want to be a fifteen-year-old boy, I open up a certain drawer and I find the scenery I saw when I was a boy in Kobe. I can smell the air, and I can touch the ground, and I can see the green of the trees. That's why I want to write a book.

Here, too, a brand-new day is beginning. It could be a day like all the others, or it could be a day remarkable enough in many ways to remain in the memory. In either case, for now, for most people, it is a blank sheet of paper.

People leave strange little memories of themselves behind when they die.

Memories and thoughts age, just as people do. But certain thoughts can never age, and certain memories can never fade.

People's memories are maybe the fuel they burn to stay alive.

Most everything you think you know about me is nothing more than memories.

I think history is collective memories. In writing, I'm using my own memory, and I'm using my collective memory.

It's an incredible thing when you are creating something in a moment with the other people on stage and with an audience, and you are all experiencing it together as it exists in that one night. It's a magical feeling.

People don't understand what happiness is, so they have an idea of what will make them happy, but it never does.

Anything that's expanding the mind and heart is happiness. But it's not a goal.

I don't want to not enjoy where I am at this very moment. So, every time I plan something the exact opposite happens. I hope that I'm always satisfied and content like I am right at this very moment.

I don't want to not enjoy where I am at this very moment. So, every time I plan something the exact opposite happens. I hope that I'm always satisfied and content like I am right at this very moment.

He didn't remember, he didn't worry, he just was.

Sifting daylight dissolves the memory, turns it into dust motes floating in light.

All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was.

I've always been kind of a - you know, I have my moments, where I can be Tommy, and then I flip a switch; when you're on stage, you turn into this other personality.

There must have been a moment, at the beginning, were we could have said -- no. But somehow we missed it.

I blend memories. I blend them into one that's funny. I exaggerate to clarify.

Almost every place has a moment of the day, an angle and intensity of light, in which it looks its best. When you're stuck someplace, you learn that time and you look forward to it.

My first church had seven members in it, and I have to remember, the rent was $225 a month and I worked for Union Carbide and took the check I made from work to pay for the rent to keep the church open.

At the moment of vision, the eyes see nothing.

In Heathrow a vast chunk of memory detached itself from a blank bowl of airport sky and fell on him. He vomited into a blue plastic canister without breaking stride.

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

Memory believes before knowing remembers.