Quotes About Nostalgia

From daydreams on the road there was no waking. He plodded on. He could remember everything of her save her scent. Seated in a theatre with her beside him leaning forward listening to the music. Gold scrollwork and sconces and the tall columnar folds of the drapes at either side of the stage. She held his hand in her lap and he could feel the tops of her stockings through the thin stuff of her summer dress. Freeze this frame. Now call down your dark and your cold and be damned.

He poured the tumbler full. Drink up, he said. The world goes on. We have dancing nightly and this night is no exception. The straight and the winding way are one and now that you are here what do the years count since last we two met together? Men's memories are uncertain and the past that was differs little from the past that was not.

The cooler days have brought a wistful mood upon him. The smell of coalsmoke in the air at night. Old times, dead years. For him such memories are bitter ones.

I feel old, Squire. Every conversation is about the past.

We would hardly wish to know ourselves again as once we were and yet we mourn the days.

Trousers rolled to the knee but still they got wet. They tied the rope to a cleat at the rear of the boat and rowed back across the lake, jerking the stump slowly behind them. By then it was already evening. Just the slow periodic rack and shuffle of the oarlocks. The lake dark glass and windowlights coming on along the shore. A radio somewhere. Neither of them had spoken a word. This was the perfect day of childhood. This is the day to shape the days upon.

Men's memories are uncertain and the past that was differs little from the past that was not

This was the perfect day of his childhood. This the day to shape the days upon.

They sat in the little diningroom and ate. She'd put on music, a violin concerto. The phone didnt ring. Did you take it off the hook? No, she said. Wires must be down. She smiled. I think it's just the snow. I think it makes people stop and think. Bell nodded. I hope it comes a blizzard then. Do you remember the last time it snowed here? No, I cant say as I do. Do you? Yes I do. When was it. It'll come to you. Oh. She smiled. They ate.

His dreams brightened. The vanished world returned.

The old man remembered it now with dim regret, and remembered such nights when the air was warm as a breath and the moon no dead thing.

dwindling slowly on the road behind him like some storybook peddler from an antique time, dark and bent and spider thin and soon to vanish forever.

Esquecemo-nos de algumas coisas, não é? Sim. Esquecemo-nos do que queríamos recordar e recordamos o que queríamos esquecer.

Le cose ci sono e poi non ci sono più. Credo che sentirne la mancanza vuol dire sperare che tornino. Ma le cose non tornano

At one time I could have seen myself living there. It was built by my great-grandfather. I've seen photographs of it and it was quite beautiful.

I was unhappy as a child for reasons that are no longer important.

Nothing is changed. I wish it were a dream and I could wake. I wish I could forget it but I cant. I wish I could be who I was before but I never will be.

Do you think of yourself as an atheist. God no. Those were the good old days.

This is the house where the dead lived. It is gone, lost and gone.

We're all of us pretty much an assemblage of memories.

Dustfinger closed his eyes and listened. He was home again.

Memories, so sweet and bitter.. they had both nourished and devoured him for so many years. Until a time came when they began to fade, turning faint and blurred, only an ache to be quickly pushed away because it went to your heart. For what was the use of remembering all you had lost?

Ist es nicht seltsam, wie viel dicker ein Buch wird, wenn man es mehrmals liest? [...] Als würde jedes Mal etwas zwischen den Seiten kleben bleiben. Gefühle, Gedanken, Geräusche, Gerüche ... Und wenn du dann nach vielen Jahren wieder in dem Buch blätterst, entdeckst du dich selbst darin, etwas jünger, etwas anders, als hätte das Buch dich aufbewahrt, wie eine gepresste Blüte, fremd und vertraut zugleich.

If you take a book with you on a journey,' Mo had said when he put the first one in her box, 'an odd thing happens: the book begins collecting your memories. And forever after you have only to open that book to be back where you first read it.