Quotes About Nostalgia

Nothing prevents happiness like the memory of happiness.

Çok güzel anlar hüzünlüdür her zaman. Geçici olduklar?n? duyar insan, durdurmak ister, bir ?ey gelmez elinden. Çocukken hep sirkte duyard?m bunu, daha sonra da konserde, çok mutlu oldu?um zaman. "?ki saate kadar bitecek," derdim içimden.

Hence the charm of family albums. Those grey or sepia shadows, phantomlike and almost undecipherable, are no longer traditional family portraits but rather the disturbing presence of lives halted at a set moment in their duration, freed from their destiny; not, however, by the prestige of art but by the power of an impassive mechanical process.

Perhaps she's in love with the last memory she has of you.

From my novel "Broken Things" (Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas): Those eyes had haunted his dreams?and nightmares too?for over a quarter of a century. "I wanted to tell you Allie's in town. Allie Drake. You remember her, don't you?" Jack's gaze shifted back to his brother's grinning face and suddenly he wanted to pop Steve right in the nose. Did he remember Allie Drake? What a stupid question!

The memory of the aged becomes clearer and clearer with time. It has no pity.

Quando abbiamo finito sono andato a fare una passeggiata da solo, fino alla collina che anni prima in un giorno di neve io e Guido avevamo risalito per contemplare il passaggio. Ho cercato il punto preciso in cui ci eravamo fermati e ho guardato in basso come avevamo fatto allora, ed era strano vedere una casa sola dove ce n'erano state due.

La sua tendenza è sempre stata quella di saltare fuori in tempo dal conforto decrescente degli stati raggiunti, scappare verso le sorprese del nuovo o verso il vuoto rigenerante della solitudine, cancellare le nostalgie, ripartire da zero.

La mia nostalgia diventava una specie di fantasma in corsa che riusciva solo a farmi sentire più straniero nella città dov'ero cresciuto.

I miss my room. I miss my bed. I miss being a little punk with no care in the world, giving two fucks about it, just looking for trouble. I guess I found it.

She felt the breath of history on her cheek.

Nostalgia is masochism and masochism is something masochists love to share.

I knew there was something holding me here. It wasn't paprikash. Or nostalgia for my meager childhood... ...Somewhere in me a nearly voiceless child was asking to know the rest of the story that had been interrupted.

In a certain sense the past is far more real, or at any rate more stable, more resilient than the present. The present slips and vanishes like sand between the fingers, acquiring material weight, only in its recollection.

The land of the 45rpm record is the land of chaos.

Everyone's past, I try to rationalize, is nothing more than the collection of memories they choose to remember.

I used to have this Mercedes, a dark blue 450SLC, which was the most beautiful car. I'd like to have another unusual, beautiful car.

Back to Staten Island

The car trip can draw the family together, as it was in the days before television when parents and children actually talked to each other.

what happens to most of these people anyway? They have their fling and then they vanish. They have to take jobs eventually as telephone operators, bartenders, partners in a lamp shop in some little town in the San Fernando mountains… and others take their places… but mostly they just vanish, and you forget about them unless you hear, one day, a certain song.

a habit he'd developed when going to dirty movie theaters in South Florida, something he did not want to give up even in old age,

Florida was where they lived, where I kept coming back, though nobody asked me questions anymore about what I was doing. One day, when I was sitting in the back seat of the car as we were waiting for a railroad train to go by on our way to the mall, my mother turned back to me and said, apropos of something I forget, "You are a separate person, you know," but I felt I wasn't. I couldn't get away from them, which is why I kept coming back to Florida.

He wandered the streets and parks with the deep pleasure of someone who is saying good-bye to a place, which, once it has been relegated to the past, now seems especially touching.

They made love much later on a mattress in the living room, as the cries of children playing in the street echoed around them, and when Malone left he had fallen in love; not with the young man, but the thought of him in the bathtub with his candles reading books of anatomy; and when Malone went to see him the next time, he simply sat with him in the bathroom and did not even ask to make love.