Quotes About Nostalgia

Nostalgia settled on my shoulders like the arm of a long-lost friend, urging me to look back and listen; it had been years since I heard such morning sounds, such silence.

To grow up is to wonder about things; to be grown up is to slowly forget the things you wondered about as a child.

I keep remembering — I keep remembering. My heart has no pity on me.

The memory of you saddened my joys, but consoled my sorrows.

I love you, but I love the past even more. I long for it, I long for it, I am consumed with longing for it. The past! I shall cry, I shall suffer because the past will never come back again.

We photographers deal in things which are continually vanishing, and when they have vanished, there is no contrivance on earth which can make them come back again.

We photographers deal in things which are continually vanishing, and when they have vanished there is no contrivance on earth which can make them come back again. We cannot develop and print a memory.

You see, my mind takes me far, but my heart dreams of return.

My soft voice and demeanor were useless. In a pint jar, I carried a cremated friend, like flesh scraped from a cistern.

Blessed be childhood which brings down something of heaven into the midst of our rough earthliness.

E in qualsiasi città ci fermiamo sono le case cui è troppo tardi per tornare i giardini in cui è troppo tardi per trascorrere una notte di luna e le donne che è troppo tardi per amare a tormentarci con la loro impalpabile presenza.

Vad är det som formar ett barn? De lyckliga eller de olyckliga stunderna. Om ett barn bara kommer ihåg de lyckliga stunderna är det möjligt att barnet kommer ihåg dem för att de var så få och då kan man väl säga att barndomen inte var lycklig. Och tvärtom, förstås.

Our yesterdays are like a lonely and a ruined land wherein a breeze of recollection sighs--a fading land to which is no return.

The years like birds of passage go To that eternal clime, the past; And May's immortal lot is cast Upon their flight o'er all below, Like sunlight on a field of snow, Or some sweet rose-leaf on the blast.

Even in America, the Indian summer of life should be a little sunny and a little sad, like the season, and infinite in wealth and depth of tone—but never hustled.

Home is the wallpaper above the bed, the family dinner table, the church bells in the morning, the bruised shins of the playground, the small fears that come with dusk, the streets and squares and monuments and shops that constitute one's first universe.

There's an old saying that if you come back to the place where you became a man, you will remember all those things you need to be happy... That saying never made sense to me, but I thought it was worth a try.

He was in way over his head... We're held accountable for our stupidity & moral ignorance... Arrogant condescension...suffering from self-hatred which comes along with a terrible nostalgia for the way we imagine things were, the nostalgia of defeat...breeds tyrants... He can hold his liquor, I'll give him that. It's a generational skill,...indicative of a pathology.

In the eaves a swallow cri'th, And hark, the sound of whetting, Whetting and whetting the scythe On the dewy lawn: O blithe, Blithe sound, there's no forgetting.

This was Alec Yarr, who, many years ago, used to pilot a Haddon Avenue trolley from Camden to Haddonfield. Now there are no cars. Buses have answered demands for speed, at the cost of fuming the air and filling it with squeals and droning sounds.

We seem but to linger in manhood to tell the dreams of our childhood, and they vanish out of memory ere we learn the language.

Le bonheur est comme l'été : il n'irradie pas. Rien à attendre de son souvenir pour les jours où nous aurons froid. - Il y a des sensations qui écrivent en lettres ineffaçables. Le bonheur écrit blanc.

Home is one's birthplace, ratified by memory.

Vietnam was what we had instead of happy childhoods.