Quotes About Nostalgia

The things we remember are not necessarily the most permanent or even the most meaningful, but they are often the brightest, and maybe that is why in the end they matter most.

But to mourn, that's different. To mourn is to be eaten alive with homesickness for the person.

I still have a piece of that root, put away in a box with my journal, my can of tobacco tags, the newspaper write-up when I got run over by the train, a photograph of me and Miss Love and Grandpa in the Pierce, my Ag College diploma from the University -- and the buckeye that Lightfoot gave me.

I love everything that is old; old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wines.

The first time I read an excellent book, it is to me just as if I had gained a new friend. When I read a book over I have perused before, it resembles the meeting with an old one.

Even as a kid, my memories are of books taking me out of myself.

I urge you to pursue preserving your personal history to allow your children and grandchildren to know who you were as a child and what your hopes and dreams were."-

Heaven was the place where you kept alive the dreams of your memories.

The past is always an invented land.

Remembering the past always comes with an image or a view attached.

I've never left Istanbul, never left the houses, streets, and neighborhoods of my childhood.

As in many other cities, money no longer had any value in Istanbul. At the time I returned from the East, bakeries that once sold large one-hundred drachma loaves of bread for one silver coin now baked loaves half the size for the same price, and they no longer tasted the way they did during my childhood.

Haf?zan?n bahçesi çoraklaÅŸmaya baÅŸlay?nca," demiÅŸti o son akÅŸamlar?n birinde Celal, "insan elde kalan son aÄŸaçlar?n ve güllerin üzerine ÅŸefkatle titrer. Kuruyup gitmesinler diye, sabahtan akÅŸama kadar onlar? sulay?p okÅŸuyorum: Hat?rl?yorum, hat?rl?yorum ki unutmayay?m!

Cuando el jardín de la memoria comienza a secarse -le había dicho Celâl una de aquellas noches-, uno tiembla con amor por los últimos árboles y rosales que le quedan. Los riego y los acaricio de la mañana a la noche para que no se sequen: ¡recuerdo, recuerdo que no quiero olvidar!

lo habían encuadernado cuidadosamente con un papel de aguas azul que hacía recordar los sueños.

Cualquier cosa que me recuerde a ti, me entristece tanto que no lo puedo soportar.

It is no more possible to take pride in these neglected dwellings, in which dirt, dust and mud have blended into their surroundings, than it is to rejoice in the beautiful old wooden houses that as a child I watched burn down one by one.

Bütün hayat?m Ä°stanbul'un yak?l?p, y?k?l?p, tahrip edilip deÄŸiÅŸtirilmesinin hikayesidir. Bu, insan?n kendi hat?ralar?n?n, kendi hat?rlad?klar?n?n, baÄŸl? olduÄŸu sokaklar?n, çevrelerin, neredeyse haf?zas?na, ezberine ald??? görüntülerin yok edilmesi hikâyesidir ve benim için çok draml?, ac?l? ve a??r bir hikâyedir.

Then suddenly I'd hear a ship coming from the direction of Karaköy and Tophane blowing its whistle, and I would remember the noise of the city, and its crowds, and as I tried to conjure up the image of the ferries approaching the piers, I would reluctantly realize just how involved I'd become with the Keskin family, how much time I'd spent eating at this table: As these ships had gone by, blowing their whistles, I'd not even noticed how many months and years had passed us by.

Ka loved Turgenev and his elegant novels, and like the Russian writer Ka too had tired of his own country's never-ending troubles and come to despise its backwardness, only to find himself gazing back with love and longing after a move to Europe. Ka

Samiha le había destrozado el corazón al recordarle que hubo un tiempo en que no lo había amado. En momentos como ese, en el que todos los fracasos e insatisfacciones de su vida parecían inundarlo por dentro como una oleada de arrepentimiento, su mente volvía automáticamente a Rayiha.

Their imaginations were fed by exile, a nourishment drawn not through roots but through rootlessness. My imagination, however, requires that I stay in the same city, on the same street, in the same house, gazing at the same view. Istanbul's fate is my fate. I am attached to this city because it has made me who I am.

If we've lived in a city long enough to have given our truest and deepest feelings to its prospects, there comes a time when—just as a song recalls a lost love—particular streets, images, and vistas will do the same.

with a sad smile she would recount the time our grandfather was so displeased with our grandmother's okra stew that in a fit of temper he threw the pot out the window into the deep, fast-running waters of the Bosphorus.