And then, gradually, the memory of her would fade away, I had forgotten the girl of my dream. - Marcel Proust

زمان آدم‌ها را دگرگون می‌کند اما تصویری را که از ایشان داریم ثابت نگه می‌دارد. هیچ چیزی دردناک‌تر از این تضاد میان دگرگونی آدم‌ها و ثبات خاطره نیست

And so it is with our own past. It is a labour in vain to attempt to recapture it: all the efforts of our intellect must prove futile. The past is hidden somewhere outside the realm, beyond the reach of intellect, in some material object (in the sensation which that material object will give us) of which we have no inkling. And it depends on chance whether or not we come upon this object before we ourselves must die.

Desire makes everything blossom; possession makes everything wither and fade.