Quotes About Nostalgia

I settled back. Brett moved close to me. We sat up close against each other. I put my arm around her and she rested against me comfortably. It was very hot and bright, and the houses looked sharply white. We turned out onto the Gran Via. Oh, Jake, Brett said, We could have have such a damned good time together. Yes, I said. Isn't it pretty to think so.

Isn't it pretty to think so?

In the chair, watching the fire and thinking of Pop and how sad it was that he was not immortal, and how happy I was that he had been able to be with us so much, that we'd been lucky enough to have three or four things together that were like the Old Days along with just the happiness of being together and talking and joking, I fell asleep.

Há sempre países mágicos que fazem parte da nossa infância. Os que nos vêm à memória e que visitamos quando dormimos e sonhamos. São tão maravilhosos à noite como quando eramos crianças. Se alguma vez voltamos para os ver, desvanecem-se. Mas à noite não perdem nada da antiga beleza se tivermos a sorte de sonhar com eles

Maybe I have had all my life in three days, he thought. If that's true I wish we would have spent the last night differently. But last nights are never any good. Last nothings are any good.

Mary's extremely nice cousin had given us two small square sacking-covered pillows filled with balsam needles. I always slept with mine under my neck or, if I slept on my side, with my ear on it. It was the smell of Michigan when I was a boy and I wished I could have had a sweet-grass basket to keep it in when we traveled and to have under the mosquito net in the bed at night.

But this is how Paris was in the early days when we were very poor and very happy.

Nicholas Adams drove on through the town along the empty, brick-paved street ... on under the heavy trees of the small town that are a part of your heart if it is your town and you have walked under them, but that are only too heavy, that shut out the sun and that dampen the houses for a stranger.

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

I knew that now, reading it in the oversensitized state of my mind after much too much brandy, I would remember it somewhere, and afterward it would seem as though it had really happened to me. I would always have it.

Pamplona is changed, of course, but not as much as we are older. I found that if you took a drink that it got very much the same as it always was.

Memories wasn't a place, memories was in the mind.

they looked so much the same; perhaps their faces were a little less doughy, more defined. Are they stunted? Am I seeing them the way I will always see them? Am I the keeper of the ghosts of their childhood selves?

When I kiss her I am kissing 1903.

So, like a forgotten fire, a childhood can always flare up again within us. —Gaston Bachelard

The person I once was, but lost, is the person you once knew.

My father knew our way mile by mile; by day or by night, he knew where we were. Everything that changed under our eyes, in the flying countryside, was the known world to him, the imagination to me. Each in our own way, we hungered for all this: my father and I were in no other respect or situation so congenial.

It had been startling and disappointing to me to find out that story books had been written by people, that books were not natural wonders, coming up of themselves like grass. Yet regardless of where they come from, I cannot remember a time when I was not in love with them -- with the books themselves, cover and binding and the paper they were printed on, with their smell and their weight and with their possession in my arms, captured and carried off to myself.

He was like a young, undriven, unfalsifying, unvindictive Fay. So Fay might have appeared, just at the beginning, to her aging father, with his slipping eyesight.

My Best Bread, written out twenty or thirty years ago in her mother's strict, pointed hand, giving everything but the steps of the procedure. (A cook is not exactly a fool.)

Only the past when you were happy is real.

He recites sardonically from Rossetti. "Look in my face. My name is Might-Have-Been; I am also called No More, Too Late, Farewell.

It was all the same every year. And that's how I liked it. I never wanted it to be different, not even a little bit. It's funny. When you're young, you always want things to change. You want to grow up. You want to go to new places, do new things. But in the end, it's the things like Christmas, the things that are always the same, that you love the most.

For instance, I love the movie Casablanca. Who doesn't? No matter how many egghead critics declare Citizen Kane to be the greatest American movie, we all know it's Casablanca in fact.