Quotes About Nostalgia

My father taught me poetry. We'd go for long walks through Outremont and onto Mont Royal, and he'd recite poetry. I'd repeat it. Not well, most of the words meant nothing to me, but I remembered it all, every word. Only later did I realize what it meant." "And what did it mean?" "It meant the world," said Gamache. "My father died when I was nine.

Armand pushed his omelette away after one bite. It was moist, with aged Comté cheese and tarragon. Just as he remembered it. Just as he liked it. But not today.

It's why we're all so fascinated with history. We're in a rowboat. We move forward, but we're always looking back.

her book. Ngaio Marsh. Myrna was re-reading the classics.

También si todo aquello desaparecería con el tiempo. Si la voz se apagaría y los rasgos se desdibujarían. Si los recuerdos se desvanecerían y ocuparían su lugar en el olvido junto a otros acontecimientos del pasado, igual de agradables pero neutros. Avec le temps. ¿Es que con el paso del tiempo amamos menos?

It smelled of the past, of a time before computers, before information was "Googled" and "blogged." Before laptops and BlackBerries and all the other tools that

I am a pop widow.

You can lose your way groping among the shadows of the past. It's frightening how many people and things there are in a man's past that have stopped moving. The living people we've lost in the crypts of time sleep so soundly side by side with the dead that the same darkness envelops them all. As we grow older, we no longer know whom to awaken, the living or the dead.

But some of us awake in the night with strange phantasms of enchanted hills and gardens, of fountains that sing in the sun, of golden cliffs overhanging murmuring seas, of plains that stretch down to sleeping cities of bronze and stone, and of shadowy companies of heroes that ride caparisoned white horses along the edges of thick forests; and then we know that we have looked back through the ivory gates into that world of wonder which was ours before we were wise and unhappy.

The present moment is the only dimension of existence worth inhabiting, because it is the only one available to us. (...) Yet we live virtually all of our lives somewhere between memories, and aspirations, nostalgia and expectations.

the irreversibility of things is a kind of death at the heart of life and threatens constantly to steer us into time past- the home of nostalgia, guilt, regret and remorse, the great spoilers of happiness.

as Freud said; that the nostalgia for lost paradises, for the joys and sorrows of childhood, lays upon our lives a weight as heavy as it is unknown to us.

Not very long ago, the whole world smoked, no room was truly furnished unless it contained an ashtray, and all of waking life was measured out in cigarettes.

you seldom hear, at a funeral, a friend of the deceased saying, "What do you expect, she wore L'Heure Bleue

hic sacra domus carique penates, hic mihi Roma fuit.

shutters as old as Herman Melville.

I was sixteen for twenty years. By September I will be a ghost.

oh antic God return to me my mother in her thirties leaned across the front porch the huge pillow of her breasts pressing against the rail summoning me in for bed. I am almost the dead woman's age times two. I can barely recall her song the scent of her hands though her wild hair scratches my dreams at night. return to me, oh Lord of then and now, my mother's calling, her young voice humming my name.

Back in the 1960s, I saw Peter, Paul and Mary. I was at that age, about 14, and I was mesmerized.

Believe me, that was a happy age, before the days of architects, before the days of builders.

One of my cats reminds me of my mother. I pat my mother in her. Reincarnation of evaporated mother.

I cried with Daddy in the kitchen when we found out, bright fluorescent white strip bulb, blackness outside, snow, crown die-back, tiny ivory Inuit duck for using in a board game, Monopoly, two big wide Inuit snow shoes in a museum, the fact that I don't know how the Inuits ever walked in those things.

Ming Dynasty porcelain, Mao jackets, cheap toys and electrical goods, everything, though not pot-stickers, or crispy duck and pancakes and sweet and sour pork and fortune cookies, the fact that she never ate her fortune cookie though, just opened it to see her fortune.

The children could see their own roof, weighted down by stones, peeping over the edge of the hill long before they were anywhere near it, and they fastened their homesick eyes upon it as a sailor fixes his upon the North Star at sea.