Quotes About Nostalgia

Depression is a red herring, said Nariman. I think a lot about the past, it's true. But at my age, the past is more present than the here and now. and there is not much percentage in the future.

Memories were permanent. Sorrowful ones remained sad even with the passing of time, yet happy ones could never be recreated – not with the same joy. Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.

The future was becoming past, everything vanished into the void, and reaching back to grasp for something, one came out clutching - what? A bit of string, scraps of cloth, shadows of the golden time. If one could only reverse it, turn the past into future, and catch it on the wing, on its journey across the always shifting line of the present ...

She did not notice that already, in her memory, those months […] of fretting and tardiness, quarrels and crooked seams, had been transmuted into something precious, to be remembered with yearning.

We don't forget, but something vacant settles in us.

In front of the photograph of my mother as a child, I tell myself: she is going to die: I shudder, like winnicott's psychotic patient, over a catastrophe which has already occurred. Whether or not the subject is already dead, every photograph is this catastrophe.

All of a sudden it didn't bother me not being modern.

Disappointment of various places and trips. Not really comfortable anywhere. Very soon, this cry: I want to go back! (but where? since she is no longer anywhere, who was once where I could go back). I am seeking my place. Sitio.

the love which is over and done with passes into another world like a ship into space, lights no longer winking

Du passé, c'est mon enfance qui me fascine le plus ; elle seule, à la regarder, ne me donne pas le regret du temps aboli. Car ce n'est pas l'irréversible que je découvre en elle, c'est l'irréductible : tout ce qui reste encore en moi, par accès.

Few First Ladies—and the name wasn't yet commonly used—have so reveled in the White House or developed such a proprietary feeling about it. "Eight happy years I spent there—so happy!" Julia would reminisce. "It still seems as much like home to me as the old farm in Missouri, White Haven.

That bust I can never forget,' one young visitor remembered, 'for the old lady always paused before it in her tour of the rooms and, leaning on her cane, gazed and gazed, as if she could never be satisfied.

Having missed a carefree boyhood, he seemed to want to compensate in his later years

John "was still her hero after all the years.

think she was also thinking, perhaps, of Justine, up there in the big house among the tall candles and the oil-paintings by forgotten masters.

I may be an old guy, but the truth is old guys remember stuff real well. Not recent things, you understand, but old things. You got to imagine your memory is like an old bucket, you know? Once it's filled up with old stuff there ain't no way to get new stuff in. No way at all, you understand? So I don't remember any new stuff because my old bucket is all filled up with old stuff that happened way back.

There are a lot of them, all around the wsorld, all built a lifetime ago, during the long and spectacular blaze of American military power and self-confidence, when there was nothing we couldn't or wouldn't do. I was a product of that era, but not a part of it. I was nostalgic for something I had never experienced.

Route 66. She headed north and east on it. Reacher started singing to himself, about getting his kicks. Then he stopped. Berenson

video. Eight-millimetre home movies deader than the deadest thing that ever died.

So he repeated the same made-up crap he had lived on then, about bubblegum machines and Cadillacs with fins, and endless sunshine, and drive-in movies and waitresses on roller skates, and cheeseburgers and cold Coca-Cola in green glass bottles, and baseball on AM radio, out of Kansas City, static and all.

He won't come here. We'll have to go to San Francisco." "Like it's still 1967." "What?" Reacher said, "Nothing.

Like an AWOL soldier saying goodbye to his

Heyday, now that is a funny word ain't it? Part of a heyday is, you don't never know you are having yourself one till later when it's all over with, long gone.

I remember it as October days are always remembered, cloudless, maple-flavored, golden and so clean it quivers.