memory is to love what the saucer is to the cup.
Memory must be patchy; what is more alarming is its face-savingness. Something in one shrinks from catching it out - unique to oneself, one's own, one's claim to identity, it implicates one's identity in its fibbing.
I know that I have in my make-up layers of synthetic experiences, and that the most powerful of my memories are only half true.
