Quotes About Nostalgia

Pour trouver le sommeil, elle parcours ses souvenirs. C'est le seul endroit où demeure la tendresse. [...] Le yeux fermés, elle voyage à travers la beauté.

Pourquoi ai-je oublié à quel point c'est doux d'être ici? C'était comme si tous ses bonheurs récents avaient aussitôt été condamnés à l'amnésie.

Minutos que uno se graba en la memoria en el momento mismo en que los vive. Segundos que son nuestra futura nostalgia.

La auténtica medida de la vida es el recuerdo.

La dicha se convierte en una isla en el pasado, inaccesible.

Ils étaient beaux à cette époque, remplis d'une certitude amoureuse qui respirait l'éternité.

The fifties are a peaceful time, a quiet sleeping time between two noisy bursts of years, a blue and white time filled with sweet yellow days, music and bright smelling memories.

By now I was talking to my mother, as the wounded and the dying do, I was begging for comfort, just this last once, this last time. Put your cool hand on my brow as you did when I was little and had a fever and you came in the middle of the night and tucked me in. Sometimes she would take off all of my blankets and then one by one waft them back over me; first the sheet, she'd lift it up again, and it would flutter down, so cool, so clean. How happy children can be in their beds.

the taste for Victorian-era sci-fi futures is more than anything else a nostalgia for the last moment, before the carnage of World War I, when everyone could safely feel a redemptive future was possible.

One reason that Americans as a people became nostalgic about the fifties more than twenty-five years later was not so much that life was better in the fifties (though in some ways it was), but because at the time it had been portrayed so idyllically on television.

And like Elvis, they are relying on the one commodity that endures after the voice is no longer quite the same, the moves have grown rusty, and the inspiration no longer flows quite as readily. That is the audience's deep, surprising love for the music they made in the past.

I grow plants for many reasons: to please my eye or to please my soul, to challenge the elements or to challenge my patience, for novelty or for nostalgia, but mostly for the joy in seeing them grow.

That's the problem with memories; You can visit them, but you can't live in them.

Why did I write this? " Although I desire that all kinds of readers enjoy my novel, my deepest wish is that it finds those readers that really need it. In a way like when I re-read The Outsiders countless times during reading time in the fourth grade or when I read Kerouac's book is in high school.

The blossoms fall just once each winter, yet in our memories, they fall every day.

replaced by a detail posted on a Web page, which may be more accurate but is probably less true. Gone is the friend you knew from home. Gone is the sled and the lake and the winter. Gone are the stories that existed in the gap between imagining and knowing and, with them, the distance that turned the particular into the universal and the mundane into the romantic.

He had pored over old photographs,

Era la padronanza di sé che pietrificava e allarmava Pablo più di tutto, perché veniva dalla giovinezza e dalla bellezza, come quella che un tempo aveva conosciuto anche lui, e proprio per questo sapeva che non avrebbe conosciuto mai più.

It scares me how hard it is to remember life before you. I can't even make the comparisons anymore, because my memories of that time have all the depth of a photograph. It seems foolish to play games of better and worse. It's simply a matter of is and is no longer.

I wake up thinking of yesterday. The joy is in remembering; the pain is in knowing it was yesterday.

It scares me how hard it is to remember life before you. I can't even make the comparisons anymore, because my memories of that time have all the depth of a photograph. It seems foolish to play games of better and worse. It's simply a matter of is and is no longer.

Can the memory of love be worth more than its presence and reality?

I might grow old in Brisbane, but I would never grow up.

God, Atlantis was only yesterday. Let alone Los Angeles. Remember that incarnation in Los Angeles?