Everyone is the child of his past.

I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes.

Each has his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by his heart; and his friends can only read the title.

The beauty of the past belongs to the past.

This only is denied even to God: the power to undo the past.

Obligations, hatreds, injuries-What did I expect memories to be? And I was forgetting remorse. I have a complete past now.

Man is a history-making creature who can neither repeat his past nor leave it behind.

The passing minute is every man's equal possession, but what has once gone by is not ours.

The past is our definition. We may strive, with good reason, to escape it, or to escape what is bad in it, but we will escape it only by adding something better to it.

One may return to the place of his birth, He cannot go back to his youth.