Proust

But when nothing remains of a faraway past, after the living beings have died, the objects destroyed, there alone remain--frailer yet more lively, less material yet more tenacious, more faithful--the fragrance and the taste, for a long time lingering as spirits, recalling, awaiting, hoping, upon the ruins of everything else, supporting without bending, as upon a nearly intangible droplet, the enormous edifice of memory.