Quotes About Nostalgia

For a moment I held her hand in mine and felt her warm, dry pressure. Then I went out to get the rum. The night stood big and silent about the little house. The leather seats of our car were moist. I stood and looked toward the horizon where the red glow of the city rose against the sky. I would gladly have stayed out there; but already I could hear Lenz calling.

Te jeseni 1939. život je ?oveku bio nanovo poklonjen - re?e Švarc. - ?ak su i kestenovi te jeseni ponovo procvetali, po drugi put, u Parizu - se?ate li se?

I am conscious of the nameless sadness of Time that runs and runs on and changes, and when a man returns he shall find nothing again. —Yes, it is a hard thing to part; but to come back again, that is sometimes far harder.

To-day we would pass through the scenes of our youth like travelers. We are burnt up by hard facts; like tradesmen we understand distinctions, and like butchers, necessities. We are no longer untroubled- we are indifferent. We might exist there; but should we really live there?

man bija t?da saj?ta, it k? maz? telpa paceltos un ar mums aizlidotu cauri naktij un gadiem, gar?m daudz?m atmi??m. T? bija sav?da noska?a. Laiks lik?s apst?jies; tas vairs nebija k? straume, kas n?ca no tumsas un iepl?da tums?, - tas bija ezers, kur? klusi atspogu?oj?s dz?ve.

I'm still in shape. I jog along the Charles each evening. If I go five miles, I get to glimpse the lights of Harvard just across the river. And see all the places I had walked when I was happy. I run back in the darkness, reminiscing just to pass the time. Sometimes I ask myself what I would be if Jenny were alive. And I answer: I would be alive.

He knew that his day was coming to an end. On July 4, 1909, as he stood with friends on the roof of the Reliance Building, looking out over the city he adored, he said, You'll see it lovely. I never will. But it WILL be lovely.

It is true that in this time people set their faces hard for photographs, partly from custom, partly because of deficits in photographic technology, but this crowd might not have smiled for the better part of a century. The women seem suspended in a state somewhere between melancholy and fury and are surrounded by old men in strange beards that look as if someone had dabbed glue at random points on their faces, then hurled buckets of white hair in their direction.

There were always those passengers who came aboard bearing grudges against the modern age.

Late that afternoon, he devoted two quiet hours to his Old South, losing himself in another, more chivalrous age.

he bought his farm. The grueling work that had so worn on him during his boyhood now became for him both a soul-saving diversion and a romantic harking back to America's past.

A safe but sometimes chilly way of recalling the past is to force open a crammed drawer. If you are searching for anything in particular you don't find it, but something falls out at the back that is often more interesting. J. M. Barrie "Dedication" Peter Pan 1904

Once, in a time long past when men believed they could part mountains, a very different building stood in the Wal-Mart's place, and behind its mist-clouded windows ninety-three children who did not know better happily awaited the coming of the sea.

I remembered this guy. Spade was the sixty-year-old version of the boys I had found irresistible in high school: brilliant, misunderstood, full of shit, and deeply sexy in a way that only I could appreciate. I felt a low gyration start in my hips that I hadn't felt in years.

I come from a home where gravy is a beverage.

Thanks to my mother, not a single cardboard box has found its way back into society. We receive gifts in boxes from stores that went out of business twenty years ago.

Is not the clay pit of which you speak that in which you fashioned exceedingly unsymmetrical imitations of rat-pies in your childhood?

If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.

Oh Jake, Brett said, We could have had such a damned good time together. Ahead was a mounted policeman in khaki directing traffic. He raised his baton. The car slowed suddenly, pressing Brett against me. Yes, I said. Isn't it pretty to think so?

I don't like to leave anything,' the man said. 'I don't like to leave things behind.

Don't you like to write letters? I do because it's such a swell way to keep from working and yet feel you've done something.

The war was a long way away. Maybe there wasn't any war. There was no war here. Then I realized it was over for me. But I did not have the feeling that it was really over. I had the feeling of a boy who thinks of what is happening at a certain hour at the schoolhouse from which he has played truant.

There is never any ending to Paris, and the memory of each person who has lived in it differs from that of any other. Paris was always worth it, and you received return for whatever you brought to it…

Memory is hunger.