And it was still going on, Mrs. Ramsay mused, gliding like a ghost among the chairs and tables of that drawing-room on the banks of the Thames where she had been so very, very cold twenty years ago; but now she went among them like a ghost; and it fascinated her, as if, while she had changed, that particular day, now become very still and beautiful, had remained there, all these years.

-- from To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf

Our recollections are frozen in a form undisturbed by the passage of time. Memory becomes immortalized by the power of the written word.