Quotes About Nostalgia

hinc illae lacrimae, hence those tears.

Homecoming means parades, football and reuniting with old friends. And as I recall from my youth, a little beer.

It would be like someone . . . looking over to Clee Hills, reflects that Housman had stood in that place, regretting his land of lost content. And, at such a time, for a few of us there will always be a tugging at the heart—knowing a precious moment gone and we not there.

Ah, those days... for many years afterwards their happiness haunted me. Sometimes, listening to music, I drift back and nothing has changed. The long end of summer. Day after day of warm weather, voices calling as night came on and lighted windows pricked the darkness and, at day-break, the murmur of corn and the warm smell of fields ripe for harvest. And being young.

We can ask and ask but we can't have again what once seemed ours for ever - the way things looked, that church alone in the fields, a bed on a belfry floor, a remembered voice, the touche of a hand, a loved face. They've gone and you can only wait for the pain to pass.

And, at such a time, for a few of us there will always be a tugging at the heart—knowing a precious moment had gone and we not there. We can ask and ask but we can't have again what once seemed ours for ever—the way things looked, that church alone in the fields, a bed on belfry floor, a remembered voice, a loved face. They've gone and you can only wait for the pain to pass.

And, at such a time, for a few of us there will always be a tugging at the heart—knowing a precious moment had gone and we not there.

Ils s'en vont, ils emportent ta naissance, ton nom et ton enfance, les secrets, les rires les chansons qui grésillent sur les postes de radio, l'odeur du café et de la coriandre, l'odeur des marchés et des chèvres, l'odeur de la vie. Ils s'en vont, ils te quittent.»

Todos éramos expertos en idealizar lugares, y tras el 11 de septiembre sólo nos quedaba un sitio que idealizar, un sitio que nunca podría desilusionarnos: el pasado.

As Qhuinn looked at his best friend's handsome face, he felt as if he'd never not known that red hair, those blue eyes, those lips, that jaw. And it was because of their long history that he searched for something to say, something that would get them back to where they had been. All that came to him was . . . I miss you. I miss you so fucking bad it hurts, but I don't know how to find you even though you're right in front of me.

Me invade una nostalgia largamente olvidada de aquel apacible y grave reino del espíritu; y flota entonces con imprecisas notas mi canción susurrante, como arpa eolia; un escalofrío me sacude la lágrima va en pos de las lágrimas, el severo corazón se siente dulce y blando.. veo lejano aquello que poseo, y lo perdido se me hace realidad.

I was born in Waukegan a long, long time ago. As a matter of fact, our rabbi was an Indian.

Memory is the diary that we all carry around with us. Oscar Wilde

so every time you bring up that memory, you bring with it all the feelings and emotions you had at that time.

I keep trying to feel who I was, and cannot. — Jack Gilbert, from "Summer at Blue Creek, North Carolina," Collected Poems (Knopf, 2012)

A man in Black and White" Some years ago, a child was asked whether he liked radio or television best. The boy said radio, because the pictures were better.

We look up at the stars and they are not there. We see the memory of when they were, once upon a time. And that too is more than enough.

Our dreams are made of real things, like a shoebox full of photographs.

Nicholson Baker, a man who knows the joys of obsessive research, has already started the division. "Let me tell you," he says, "I remember the old days, the antegoogluvian era. It was O.K.—it wasn't horrible by any means. There were cordless telephones, and people wore comfortable sweaters… . But the haul was haphazard, and it came in slow.

Home. It is the place where once we lived and laughed, where we grew up with the assumption that all would be well, where we met our first love, where life stretched endlessly ahead. This is the place that now becomes a desert of the heart. —Kory Tyler, Musings, 1412           Gabe

Poetry seems to sink into us the way prose doesn't. I can still quote verses I learned when I was very young, but I have trouble remembering one line of a novel I just finished reading.

Vinyl is the real deal. I've always felt like, until you buy the vinyl record, you don't really own the album. And it's not just me or a little pet thing or some kind of retro romantic thing from the past. It is still alive.

I just think old old movies, they make you concentrate and pay attention so much more. They feel so warm. A lot of modern digital videotape, it's just too bright. Don't know why, it's not warm.

Holidays pain your soul so Anne you always think where you've been and who with every year counting back and when they're gone like this year the ache won't stop.