Quotes About Nostalgia

Esa parte de mí que todavía no se había marchado de Tarbean quiso echarle mano a su bolsillo.

I don't remember starting out that morning, but I do remember trying to sleep and feeling quite alone except for a dull, bittersweet ache.

Están las cosas tan mal como parece? ¿O me he vuelto viejo, como mi padre, y a todo le encuentro un sabor amargo comparado con cuando era niño?

Stories don't need to be new to bring you joy. Some stories are like familiar friends. Some are dependable as bread. Still,

To old friends who deserved better than they got.

It is the luxury of looking backward. You can do it forever, and it is useless.

Y, suavemente entretejido en todo aquello, la música de fondo de un laúd. Era débil, los otros ruidos la apagaban casi por completo, pero yo la distinguí con la misma claridad con que una madre distingue el llanto de su hijo aunque esté lejos de él. Esa música era como un recuerdo de la familia, de la amistad y de la agradable sensación de pertenencia a algo.

Stories don't need to be new to bring you joy. Some stories are like familiar friends.

I have heard what poets write about women. They rhyme and rhapsodize and lie. I have watched old sailors on the shore stare mutely at the slow-rolling swell of the sea. I have watched old soldiers with their hearts like leather grow teary-eyed at their king's colours stretched against the wind.

the desperate feel of the last warm night of summer.

She smelled like road dust, and honey, and the smell the air holds seconds before a heavy summer rain.

felt every year twice tonight, some of them three times.

Su chiste era como unas botas viejas y gastadas, pero tan cómodas que cuesta deshacerse de ellas.

He recognized me. Not as other people would, not as a budding hero out of stories. Tapis had no time for such things. He remembered me as the smudgy, starveling boy who fell down his stairs fever-sick and crying one winter night. You could say I loved him even more for that.

going to be a hard place to leave, but Ballymena was no

Maybe I was waxing nostalgic, but that was certainly better than waxing my legs. I don't know how women do that—the legs, not the nostalgic part.

The past is desirable, more often than not, because it can make no demands.

My mom loved rock 'n roll. My father hated it. We couldn't play it when he was around.

He took twelve pictures that day. Within a few days he showed me the contact sheet. "This one has the magic," he said. When I look at it now, I never see me. I see us.

We want thing we cannot have. We seek to reclaim a certain moment , sound, sensation. I want to hear my mother's voice. I want to see my children as children. Hands small, feet swift. Everything changes. Boy grown, father dead, daughter taller than me, weeping from a bad dream. Please stay forever, I say to the things I know. Don't go. Don't grow.

I have vague memories, like impressions on glass plates ...

Images have their way of dissolving and then abruptly returning, pulling along the joy and pain attached to them like tin cans rattling from the back of an old-fashioned wedding vehicle.

Some things melt before they become memories.

Those were mystical times. An era of small pleasures.