Quotes About Nostalgia

Per un attimo Odisseo quasi mi piacque. Ma ormai avevo visto i suoi sorrisi una volta di troppo.

A silence, in which I felt him moving deep among his memories.

Ma dernière pensée est pour Achille.

pero los recuerdos estaban hechos de aire, y sus rastros se habian borrado.

No tengo otro recuerdo de mi madre y es tan perfecto que estoy casi convencido de que es fruto de mi imaginación.

We are all made of memories

Her mouth tightens. "Have you no more memories?" I am made of memories. "Speak, then.

Evoco il ragazzo che conoscevo. Achille che sogghigna mentre i fichi diventano una macchia sfocata tra le sue mani. Gli occhi verdi che ridono nei miei. Prendi, dice. Achille, che si staglia contro il cielo, aggrappato a un ramo sopra il fiume. Il denso calore del suo respiro assonnato contro il mio orecchio:

Have you no more memories?'

I am made of memories" Patroclus - The song of Achilles

Things were a lot simpler in Detroit. I didn't care about anything but boyfriends.

The past is never really gone. It's always with us, shaping who we are.

Home is a place in the mind. When it is empty, it frets. It is fretful with memory, faces and places and times gone by. Beloved images rise up in disobedience and make a mirror for emptiness. Then what resentful wonder, and what half-aimless seeking. It is a silly state of affairs. It is a silly creature that tries to get a smile from even the most familiar and loving shadow. Comical and hopeless, the long gaze back is always turned inward.

She knew what the Barbour aftershave would make her think of, and of course it did with its forest violets and cinnamon bark.

As well as sniffing my mum's precious bottles, I loved squirting the perfume onto myself, so from a very young age I walked around in a rather overpowering haze of scent. My father started calling me Fragrant Cloud, after his favorite rose- hence the name of this blog.

I suppose it is possible that one day we will meet again and it will feel as if nothing ever happened between us.

I feel at once the need to die and be reborn one thousand years ago.

How often I've imagined the bubble of body and breath you and I made, even though by now I can hardly remember what you look like, I can hardly see your face.

No more words from the field! Thus begins the slow slide back to my life, back to the plans I drew before the summer became the summer of wanting you

I suppose it is possible that one day we will meet again and it will feel as if nothing ever happened between us. This seems unimaginable, but the fact is that it happens all the time. "No whiteness (lost) is so white as the memory / of whiteness," wrote Williams. But one can lose the memory of whiteness, too.

That's because they're of the past. All photos of the past look melancholy and wistful precisely because they capture something that's gone.

Do you still think of her, do you still catch yourself listening for her footsteps, for the sound of her breathing at night, because I do, all the time. I still think that one day I might wake and she will be there, next to me, again; there will have been some wrinkle or pleat in time and we will be back to where we were, when she was living and breathing.

She cannot imagine how it might be, to see him again. He would be a child and she is now grown, almost a woman. What would he think? Would he recognise her now, if he were to pass her in the street, this boy who will for ever remain a boy? Several

Why is it that twenty-four hours in the company of your family is capable of reducing you to a teenager? Is this retrogression cumulative? Will she continue to lose a decade a day?