Quotes About Nostalgia

Once she had found a box full of e-books and took one of them apart to see if there were some way it had stored books inside it, but there was nothing inside but things called components. A teacher explained that they didn't work anymore because the books that were supposed to appear on them had to be sent from a cloud that no longer existed. It didn't matter. There were so few clouds anyway in the blazing vacant sky.

Stuart saw Patti Page on her television show singing 'How Much Is that Doggie in the Window?' and rather fancied her –

Falling in love with you in the Summer Garden in the white nights in Leningrad is the moment that propels me through life.

Where was he, her Alexander, of once? Was he truly gone? The Alexander of the Summer Garden, of their first Lazarevo days, of the hat in his hands, white toothed, peaceful, laughing, languid, stunning Alexander, had he been left far behind? Well, Tatiana supposed that was only right. For Alexander believed his Tatiana of once was gone, too. The swimming child Tatiana of the Luga, of the Neva, of the River Kama. Perhaps on the surface they were still in their twenties, but their hearts were old.

No! he wanted to cry out. No, Tania, please come back. What can I leave her with, what can I say, what one word can I leave with her, for her? What one word for my wife? "Tatiasha," Alexander called after her. God, what was the curator's name...? She glanced back. "Remember Orbeli-

During the day she carried her boy, bandaged and fed the wounded, leaving her own festering wounds until night-time when she licked them and nursed them, and remembered the pines and the fish and the river and the ase and the woods and the fire and the blueberries and the smell of cigarette smoke and the loud laughter coming from one male throat.

When I was in Colditz, that impenetrable fortress, whittling away my life, I wanted to know this." "Looks like you're still there, Shura." "No," he said. "I'm in New York, a fly on the wall, trying to see you without me.

Tatiana... Tatiana... Ta... tiana... —Calla, por favor. —No lo olvides. Dondequiera que estés, si puedes mirar al cielo y ver la constelación de Verseo, si ves su sonrisa y oyes cómo el viento estelar susurra tu nombre, sabrás que te estoy llamando para que vuelvas a Lazarevo. —No tendrás que llamarme, soldado —dice Tatiana, apoyando la cara en el brazo deAlexander—. Nunca me iré de aquí.

When he asked isn't it beautiful, my father was seeing his youth, and his youth was beautiful. He closed his eyes and saw himself young and so handsome, in love with many girls, funny, brilliant, popular. Of course it was beautiful. It was mystifying. It was mystical.

Breathing in Shepelevo was like hitting the right note on the piano. There was only one note. When I was young, Shepelevo was the smell of nettles, of salted smoked fish, of fresh water from the Gulf of Finland, and of burning firewood, all wrapped up in one Shepelevo.

She ate it and cried. Soon, he put the melting ice cream away. "Shura," Tatiana whispered, "darling, forget what should have been. Remember all that was." "Tatiasha, babe," Alexander whispered, coming back to bed to be covered, "my one and only wife, forget our age, our splendid youth, forget it all and let our crazy love make us young.

Dulce amor de juventud, perdona si te olvido...»

These three things:the smell of Shepelevo, the smell of the Metro and the taste of creme brulee ice cream. The essence of my childhood in Russia.

No quiero olvidarme de este niño –pensó–, por si alguna vez necesito volver a su lado.»

Memory - that fiend, that cruel enemy of comfort.

he who forgets will be destined to remember...

Se parece a Cuba?, le sopló ella al oído, casi en secreto. Y la mirada de Carlos se nubló, lo atragantó una pena tan dulce.

Eres los sabores que tuviste en la boca de niño. Eres lo que tocaste en esa edad, esa plastilina que ibas ablandando de tanto tocarla. Las cosas que escuchaste y se quedaron allí, dentro de la cabeza, con un eco de por vida. También eres los aromas que te abrieron los ojos.

You don't have to be old in America to say of a world you lived in: That world is gone.

You don't have to be old in America to say of a world you lived in: That world is gone.

He smiled, which was not at all what she'd expected. It wasn't just a polite smile, either. It was the kind that made her want to sit on the front-porch swing, if she'd had a swing, and hum romantic songs from the thirties, those terrific old songs that talked about red sails in the sunset and the glory of love.

The past is our ultimate privacy; we pile it up, year by year, decade by decade, it stows itself away, with its perverse random recall system.

and I grew up with no one. Except my grandmother. And even she died.

this is all exactly like an episode of Starsky and Hutch.