,

Even a bureau crammed with souvenirs,
Old bills, love letters, photographs, receipts,
Court depositions, locks of hair in plaits,
Hides fewer secrets than my brain could yield.
It’s like a tomb, a corpse-filled Potter’s field,
A pyramid where the dead lie down by scores.
I am a graveyard that the moon abhors.

— Charles Baudelaire, LXXVI

,

How paradoxical it is to seek in reality for the pictures that are stored in one’s memory . . . The memory of a particular image  is but regret for a particular moment; the houses, roads, avenues are as fugitive, alas, as the years.

— Marcel Proust