Quotes About Nostalgia

Had I been told Istanbul used to be a poorer, smaller and happier city, I might not have believed it, but that's what my heart told me.

I tried desperately to remember her, only to realize that despite love, a face long not seen finally fades.

Eskiden Ä°stanbul daha fakir, daha küçük, daha mutluydu deseler inanmazd?m belki, ama kalbim böyle diyordu. Çünkü arkamda b?rakt???m sevgilimin evi yerli yerinde ?hlamur ve kestane aÄŸaçlar?n?n içindeydi, ama kap?dan sordum bir baÅŸkas? oturuyordu art?k orada.

Home was merely a dull ache in the back of his memory. A tiredness in his eyes.

The only people who think children are carefree are the ones who've forgotten their own childhood.

Mas nesse momento, sua cabeça inclinada para trás, as folhas verdes e macias se movendo gentilmente na brisa quase imperceptível, sentiu um poderoso déjà-vu. Ele havia olhado para essas folhas antes. Recentemente. Mas isso era impossível. Não havia árvores grandes em Trondheim, e nenhuma crescia dentro do complexo de Milagre. Por que a luz do sol varando as folhas parecia-lhe tão familiar?

Thus a man hates the house they lived in together, because either he does not change it, so that it is as dead as his wife, or because he does change it, so that it is no longer half of their making.

You're bigger than I remembered, she said stupidly. You too, he said. I also remembered that you were beautiful. Memory does play tricks on us. No. Your face is the same, but I don't remember what beautiful means anymore.

But it could wait until they got back. That was the nice thing about the past—it stayed right where you put it until you needed to pick it up again.

The one charm about the past is that it is the past.

The one charm about the past is that it is the past. But women never know when the curtain has fallen.

You may fancy yourself safe and think yourself strong. But a chance tone of color in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play. I tell you Dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend.

If I could get back my youth, I'd do anything in the world except get up early, take exercise or be respectable.

tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play— I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend.

MISS PRISM Memory, my dear Cecily, is the diary that we all carry about with us.

Music is the art which is most nigh to tears and memories.

But a chance tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play— I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend.

It was as if by taking a photo he could, at any moment, rein habit an older life - one where a body didn't droop, or hair didn't fall out, or a future didn't have to exist

The simple things come back to us. They rest for a moment by our ribcages then suddenly reach in and twist our hearts a notch backward. No

She could feel the coolness, a whole childhood of it, falling through her. Rain on the coral beach in Galway. White tennis balls on the broken court. Her brother at his shortwave radio. A nest of wires and voices. Her father's cattle huddled on a laneway. The broken church bell. A grass verge of green in the laneway. High windows. Too tall for the school chairs. The milk came in small silver cans. She would not cry or whimper. She had always refused him that.

That's what sons do: write to their mothers about recall, tell themselves about the past until they come to realize that they are the past.

At the end of the letter he said, Fuck you, you heartless bitch, you rolled up my heart and squeezed it dry. Still, when I recalled him I would always see him waiting for me under the silver high school bleachers with a smile on his face and thirty-two perfect shining white teeth.

Perhaps that's how I should think of them, Polly thought, the troupe and Miss Snelgrove and Trot. And Sir Godfrey. Not as lost to her, but as removed to this moment in time for safekeeping.

It's not regret for staying. It is nostalgia for something that we believe is true in our illusion, something we will never have. And if we touched it, we would soon realize that it was not what we dreamed of.