But after all memory could live in the old wheezing entrails; and now it did stand to his hand, incontrovertible and plain, serene, the palm clashing and murmuring dry and wild and faint and it the night but he could face it thinking, Not could. Will. I want to.So it is the old meat after all, no matter how old. Because if memory exists outside of the flesh it wont be memory because it wont know what it remembers so when she became not then half of memory became not and if I became not then all of remembering would cease to be. -Yes he thought Between grief and nothing I will take grief.
From "The Wild Palms" by William Faulkner