Quotes About Nostalgia

Mma Ramotswe smiled at her old friend. You can go through life and make new friends every year -- every month practically -- but there was never any substitute for those friendships of childhood that survive into adult years. Those are the ones in which we are bound to one another with hoops of steel. She reached out and touched Dr. Maketsi on the arm, gently, as old friends will sometimes do when they have nothing more to say.

but to the north there was a bank of cirro-cumulus, a mackerel sky, or Schaefchenwolken—"sheep cloud"—as she remembered her father calling it. For some reason he had used German when talking about clouds and sea conditions; an odd habit that she had accepted as just being one of the things he did. "The weather," he had once said to her, smiling, "is German. I don't know why; it just is. Sorry.

i cuori degli uomini che sono molto lontani dal loro Paese sono pieni di tristezze.

She was crying because she was far from home, and who among us has never wanted to do that? There need be no other reason; just that. We cry for home, and for flowers on tables, and biscuits in little tins, and for mother; and we feel embarrassed, and foolish too, that we should be crying for such things; but we should not feel that way because all of us, in a sense, have strayed from home, and wish to return.

Memories of that which we have lost are curious things - weeks, months, even years may pass without recollection of them and then, quite suddenly, something will remind us of a lost friend, or of a favourite possession that has been mislaid or destroyed, and then we think: Yes, that is what I have had and I have no longer

This girl, now in her early teens, had never had a photograph of herself. There was no record of her childhood, nothing which would remind her of what she used to be. There was nothing, no image, of which she could say: That is me. And all this meant that there was nobody who had ever wanted her picture; she had simply not been special enough.

every man has a map in his heart of his own country and that the heart will never allow you to forget this map.

It had given her pleasure to do things for him in his lifetime, and now it was a pleasure to do things for his memory. But the memory of a father went only so far.

We don't forget...Our heads may be small, but they are as full of memories as the sky may sometimes be full of swarming bees, thousands and thousands of memories, smells of places, of little things that happened to us and which come back, unexpectedly, to remind us of who we are.

It was a prolonged, mournful howl, into which Cyril put all the sorrow of the canine condition: a howl that seemed to express deep nostalgia for the woods, for the snowy wastes of his lupine ancestors' ancient homelands, for all the sense of loss and separation that a dog feels when his master, his reason for living, his sun, is no longer there.

This car was a Rover 90, made in 1955, and therefore very old.

To lose your own language was like forgetting your mother, and as sad, in a way.

Days when I came to flower serenely in Lycée gardens long ago, and read my Apuleius keenly, but spared no glance for Cicero.

He who has lived and thought can't help despising people in his soul; him who has felt disturbs the ghost of irrecoverable days; for him there are no more enchantments; him does the snake of memories, him does repentance bite.

Recalling former years' romances, Recalling love that time enhances, With tenderness, with not a care, Alive, at liberty once more, We drank, in mute intoxication, The breath of the indulgent night! Just as a sleepy convict might Be carried from incarceration Into a greenwood, so were we Borne to our youth by reverie.

Já esquecera os amigos, a cidade E o tédio das festas de vaidade.

My goddesses! You vanished faces! Oh, hearken to my woeful call: Have other maidens gained your places, Yet not replaced you after all? (12)

September: it was the most beautiful of words, he'd always felt, evoking orange-flowers, swallows, and regret.

I sometimes wish I had lived in my grandfather's time instead of today. The pattern of life was less complicated then. This was a cleaner, greener land, and a man who took to the highroad might breathe, instead of gasoline vapors, a forgotten boon called air.

Toasted tobacco, no additives,' I said. 'Yum. Tastes like childhood.

Your bitter memories still have time to turn into sweet ones.

Beneath the chinaberry tree at the school, on the wide rolling clay earth scattered with fallen berries, he had thought himself homesick. But now he felt as though the place he wanted to be no longer existed in the world.

I can't believe I'm thirty-one-years-old, lying on my back on a pier in broad daylight--in my own hometown, I might add--trying to figure out a place to go make out." "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?

It scares me, suddenly, to know I can't remember how home sounds. Not one bird call, nor the water over rocks. There's so much you can't save by writing down.