Quotes About Nostalgia

Ce fut le temps sous de clairs ciels, (Vous en souvenez-vous, Madame?) De baisers superficiels Et des sentiments à fleur d'âme. It was a time of cloudless skies, (My lady, do you recall?) Of kisses that brushed the surface And feelings that shook the soul.

Ton cÅ"ur bat-il toujours à mon seul nom ? - Toujours vois-tu mon âme en rêve ? - Non.

Of course, I will continue to share my favorite Southern recipes, just like my mama, grandmother and family shared with me over the years. And now, I'll be adding a little bit of a lighter touch to some of these wonderful dishes.

Celebrating the times of your life, and the life in your times. from IT AIN'T ALL ABOUT THE COOKIN

More than the secret of the cat had drawn [Ned] to the nursing home. It was Mr. Scully himself. He'd known him, his habits, the things he knew how to do, the way he made his bread, the way he could get a fire started so quickly in the stove, the stories he told, the smile he gave Ned when he poured rum into his own tea, his memories of his long life.

She can't understand that books don't get used up. I've tried to explain that they aren't like clothes or furniture-that we keep them because we might want to read them again. And because they remind us of how we felt when we read them.

He and I had already had our time, and though it was still very close and real to me, as beautiful and poignant as any place on a map, it was, in truth, another time—another country.

We knew what we had and what it meant, and though so much had happened since for both of us, there was nothing like those years in Paris, after the war. Life was painfully pure and simple and good, and I believed Ernest was his best self then. I got the very best of him. We got the best of each other.

How close people could be to us when they had gone as far away as possible, to the edges of the map. How unforgettable.

Those early days in Paris were nearly forty years behind him and yet, in the final pages he writes of Hadley, "I wished I had died before I ever loved anyone but her.

I finally had to admit that there could be no cure for Paris.

I had come alive here...this was my home, and though one day it would all trickle through my fingers like so much red dust, for as long as childhood lasted it was a heaven fitted exactly to me. A place I knew by heart. The one place in the world I'd been made for.

I ran into Berkeley Cole again. It had been two years since my coming-out party, that night he and Denys Finch Hatton had recited poetry for me in blindingly white coats,

Though I often looked for one, I finally had to admit that there could be no cure for Paris

I'd managed to ignore how the ceremony would take away the boy I knew for ever and also the fierce warrior girl who had loved him. It already had. Those children were gone.

but none of it was real any more. We lived on a ghost farm.

A red-jacketed porter hurried by me with a heavy steamer trunk, and I felt a rushing up of memory. At four, I had stared at the shrinking train that carried my mother away, black smoke rising, distance between us stretching by the moment.

I had the pure sense that I couldn't ever truly lose the past, or forget what any of it had meant.

Under buttery gravy, there was the ubiquitous tommie steak with buttons of potatoes and pearled onions. My father was paying through the nose for the champagne, so I drank as much as I could, every time it came round.

Many other dear ghosts were glinting from the past, winks of light playing along the rims of our wineglasses, reminding us of how reckless they'd been and how magnificent.

Memories, made to last forever<3

I used to watch 'The Waltons' and sob because my family was nothing like that. We had a cruel sense of humor in my family.

Mom isn't content taking a stroll down memory lane. She's bought a condo and spends half the year there.

Old lovers are like socks. They always show up full of static cling and missing their mate.