I just finished reading Tinkers by Paul Harding, and found a lovely passage about the mystery of memory and time:
"....and to my great-grandchildren...," he writes, "I will be no more than the smoky arrangement of a set of rumors, and to their great-grandchildren I will be no more than a tint of some obscure color, and to their great grandchildren nothing they ever know about, and so what army of strangers and ghosts has shaped and colored me until back to Adam."
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