" He had never lingered among the pleasures
of memory. Impressions, momentary and vivid,
would wash over him: a potter's vermilion
glaze; the sky-vault filled with stars that were
also gods; the moon, from which a lion had
fallen; the smoothness of marble under his
sensitive, slow fingertips; the taste of wild boar
meat, which he liked to tear at with brusque,
white bites; a Phoenician word; the black
shadow cast by a spear on the yellow sand; the
nearness of the sea or women; heavy wine, its
harsh edge tempered by honey—these things
could flood the entire circuit of his soul. "

― Jorge Luis Borges