Quotes About Nostalgia

I sometimes seem to myself to wander around the world merely accumulating material for future nostalgias.

Home is where you live your life and build your memories.

And the memories of all we have loved stay and come back to us in the evening of our life. They are not dead but sleep, and it is well to gather a treasure of them.

Because when it comes to memories, what counts is not accuracy, but the feelings they call up.

Memories are comfy too, they are swaddling bands, they wrap you up warm like a mummy. What moment is there in life that is not already a memory?

What moment is there in life that is not already a memory?

I feel again a spark of that ancient flame.

Frogs in the marsh mud drone their old lament.

Draw Daphnis from the town, my songs, draw Daphnis home.

I who once played shepherds' songs and in my brash youth sang of you, O Tityrus, beneath the spreading beech.

Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit (Perhaps it will be pleasing sometime to have remembered these things, from The Aeneid)

Perhaps even these things, one day, will be pleasing to remember.

forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit. and perhaps it will be pleasing to have remembered these things one day

I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.

I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.

After a certain age, we do not move on from the dead, we remain in their time, in their company.

It is only the present she hates; as soon as the present becomes the past, she immediately begins loving it. (On her mother)

Put romantic love at the center of a novel today, and who could be persuaded that in its pursuit the characters are going to get to something large? That love is going to throw them up against themselves in such a way that we will all learn something important about how we got to be as we are, or how the time in which we live got to be as it is. No one, it seems to me. Today, I think, love as a metaphor is an act of nostalgia, not of discovery.

Time flies... scrapbook it.

I think it is all a matter of love; the more you love a memory the stronger and stranger it becomes

Whoever does not miss the Soviet Union has no heart. Whoever wants it back has no brain.

The photos I took in Afghanistan are lying in front of me. I peer into the faces of those who were with me there and who are so far away from me now, into the faces of those who were dying right next to me and those who were hiding behind my back. I can make these photos larger or smaller, darker or lighter. But what I can't do is bring back those who are gone forever.

We never truly forget the things that have passed out of our lives. We merely move further away from them in time, until they become either less important than they actually were or more profound than we might have ever imagined. Had

Ojalá no llorara por mi muerte. Mi propósito, toda mi vida, había consistido en amarlo y en estar con él, en hacerlo feliz. No quería provocarle ninguna clase de infelicidad ahora, así que en ese sentido pensé que era mejor que él no estuviera allí para verlo, aunque lo echaba mucho de menos y la nostalgia era tan fuerte como el dolor que sentía en la barriga.