[T]he food that memory gives to eat is bitter to the taste, and it is only with the teeth of hope that we can… — Henry Rider Haggard

And now let us love and take that which is given us, and be happy; for in the grave there is no love and no warmth, nor any touching of the lips. Nothing perchance, or perchance bitter memories of what might have been.

Yea, all things live for ever, though at times they sleep and are forgotten.

[T]hinking can only serve to measure out the helplessness of thought.