“It’s a matter of love; the more you love a memory, the stronger it becomes.” – Vladimir Nabokov.
This quote has intrigued me for years. It sheds light on memory and why I find myself drawn to my past, like a tide that never entirely recedes. I often revisit diary entries from 50 years ago, entries I had already pondered 30 years ago and again 20 years ago. What does this pattern reveal about me?
That I can’t let go? That I don’t want to? I love these memories so much that they refuse to fade.
Memory as an Addiction
Memory may be an addiction. Perhaps it’s not just about remembering; it’s about the need to understand. There’s a thrill in turning the past over in my hands, polishing its edges, extracting new insights. Each time I revisit these moments, I’m not just reminiscing—I’m examining them, teasing out details I missed before, trying to make sense of who I was then and who I am now.
Am I preserving these memories? Or reshaping them?
It’s a peculiar dance. Memory isn’t fixed; it shifts under scrutiny. What once felt solid melts into something more fluid. I now realize trealize not just remembering—I’m editing. But is that necessarily a negative thing? The raw truth of a memory is only one version of the story. I don’t believe I’m distorting the past, but I acknowledge that I experience it differently depending on my mood. Some days I look back with nostalgia, other days with regret. Some memories soften over time; others harden into something immovable.
Then, there are the memories I used to savor in one way and now revisit with an entirely different lens.
From Henry Miller to True Love
There was a time, thirty years ago, when my focus was on reliving specific encounters in excruciating, slippery detail—Henry Miller-style eroticism. Now, I find that the innocence of true love is enough. What changed? Age? Perspective? Perhaps just the realisation, I no longer need to feed my memories into the same machine. I’ve grown, and my understanding of love and life has evolved, leading me to appreciate different aspects of my past.
The past remains unchanged. It happened exactly as I described—from my point of view. That’s the rub, isn’t it? My past is my past. But what about the other people in those memories? The witnesses, the partners-in-crime? Their recollections may be wildly different.
And that’s where memory becomes dangerous.
The Paradox of Recollection
Sometimes, someone else’s version of an event has wholly shattered my own. They saw something I didn’t. They felt something I never realised. realizedersion rewrote mine, or at least, forced me to accept that there are always two (or more) sides to every story.
So what happens when memory is challenged?
Do I defend my version to the death? Or do I let the contradiction sit there, unresolved, as proof that the past isn’t as concrete as I once believed?
Maybe that’s the ultimate indulgence—returning to old memories not just to relive them, but to rewrite, reconcile, and make peace with them. Maybe Nabokov was onto something: the more we love a memory, the stronger it becomes. It is not necessarily more accurate, but more substantial and more honest in our minds. A story we tell ourselves until it becomes the story.
And in the end, maybe that’s enough.
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