I live in another world, where life and death are memorized.

The richness of life lies in memories we have forgotten.

ليس الموت ، فقط نهاية الحياة !

Vivir de recuerdos es morir.

Life is a hot day, perhaps death is a cool night. Life is a shallow bay, perhaps death is a clear, deep sea.

Life is a memory, and then it is nothing.

If one wishes to be instructed — not that anyone does — concerning the treacherous role that memory plays in a human life, consider how relentlessly the water of memory refuses to break, how it impedes that journey into the air of time. Time: the whisper beneath that word is death. With this unanswerable weight hanging heavier and heavier over one's head, the vision becomes cloudy, nothing is what it seems...
How then, can I trust my memory concerning that particular Sunday afternoon?...Beneath the face of anyone you ever loved for true — anyone you love, you will always love, love is not at the mercy of time and it does not recognize death, they are strangers to each other — beneath the face of the beloved, however ancient, ruined, and scarred, is the face of the baby your love once was, and will always be, for you. Love serves, then, if memory doesn't, and passion, apart from its tense relation to agony, labors beneath the shadow of death. Passion is terrifying, it can rock you, change you, bring your head under, as when a wind rises from the bottom of the sea, and you're out there in the craft of your mortality, alone.

La vie est une cerise
La mort est un noyau
L'amour un cerisier

Life knows us not and we do not know life — -we don’t know even our own thoughts. Half the words we use have no meaning whatever and of the other half each man understands each word after the fashion of his own folly and conceit. Faith is a myth and beliefs shift like mists on the shore; thoughts vanish; words, once pronounced, die; and the memory of yesterday is as shadowy as the hope of tomorrow

For the real movements of a life are gradual, then sudden; they resist becoming anecdotes, they pulse like quasars from long-dead stars to reach the vivid planet of the present, they drift like fog over the ship until the spread sails are merely panels of gray in grayer air and surround becomes object, as in those perceptual tests where figure and ground reverse, the kissing couple in profile turn into the outlines of the mortuary urn that holds their own ashes. Time wears down resolve — then suddenly violence, something irrevocable flashes out of nowhere, there are thrashing fins and roiled, blood-streaked water, death floats up on its side, eyes bulging.

Life is a space between two illusions: Birth and Death...

الموت يقارب بين ما فرّقته الحياة.

Life is not what one lived, but what One remembers and how One remembers it in order to recount it

Life has the name of life, but in reality it is death.