Quotes About Nostalgia

The evening sky is gold and vast. I'm soothed by April's cool caress. You're late. Too many years have passed, - I'm glad to see you, nonetheless. Come closer, sit here by my side, Be gentle with me, treat me kind: This old blue notebook – look inside – I wrote these poems as a child. Forgive me that I felt forsaken, That grief and angst was all I knew. Forgive me that I kept mistaking Too many other men for you.

But I am not allowed to forget The taste of the tears of yesterday.

It is good here: rustle and snow-crunch... Ski tracks on the splendid finery of the snow; a memory that long ages ago we passed here together.

Once taken by her, you glowed And you drank her poisons, content. Because all the stars seemed to grow, And fields had a different scent, Autumn fields.

Seaside gusts of wind, And a house in which we don't live, And the shadow of a cherished cedar In front of a forbidden window... Perhaps there is someone in this world To whom I could send all these lines. Well then! Let the lips smile bitterly And a tremor touch the heart again.

I, the half-mad mourner of buried days

Oh, how often you'll remember The sudden pain of unnamed longing — Anna Akhmatova, from "I'll erase this day from your memory," trans. A. S. Kline, White Flock (Hyperborea, 1917)

I always think about the past, it's so large and bright.

You haunt me still somehow, I've saved each word from you. — Anna Akhmatova, White Flock: Poetry of Anna Akhmatova . Translated by Andrey Kneller (CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform July 30, 2013)

None of the places where I grew up and live in my youth exist any longer: Tsarskoe Selo, Sevastopol, Kiev, Slepnyovo, Gungerburg (Ust-Narova). The following have survived: Khersones (because it is eternal), Paris - by somebody's oversight, and Petersburg-Leningrad, so that there would be a place to lay my head.

Every weekday, rain or shine, gunplay or bombs, standoff or riots, I preferred to walk home, reading my latest book. This would be a 19th century book, because I did not like 20th century books, because I did not like the 20th century.

Au bout de combien de temps oublie-t-on l'odeur de celui qui vous a aimée? Et quand cesse-t-on d'aimer à son tour? Qu'on me tende un sablier.

Vi?ai nekas nepieder?ja. Tikai atmi?as. Tikai draugi.

The years passed like the steps of a staircase leading lower and lower. I did not walk any more in the sun or hear the songs of larks like crystal fountains playing against the sky. No hand enfolded mine in the warm clasp of love. My thoughts were again solitary, disintegrate, disharmonious – the music gone. I lived alone in a few pleasant rooms, feeling my life run out aimlessly with the tedious hours: the life of an old maid ran out of my fingertips.

The men you meet can't do you any harm: ghosts from a life in which wind and sun existed—these good things they no longer remember. They creep or climb or stagger: that is their way of moving. They speak very little; they are no longer Neapolitans, or anything else.

She raised her glass and thought of what Frankie had said that first night she met him and fell for him. 'Not bad for a wee tart from the Gorbals.

I never forgot her, Father. I never forgot her for a day.

Sometimes, when we look back on a great day as a kid, I wonder was it really as perfect as that, or have I just made it that way in my head . . .

Her eyes rested on the picture of Emir that Matt had taken at her flat

Memories, light the corners of my mind, Misty water-coloured memories, of the way we were . . .' Indeed, Rosie thought

Our table was round," recalled one of the artists who, from a farming family in N?gata, returned every planting season to help his now elderly parents plant rice. "A square table has edges, but edges divide people. As a family, we weren't cut off from one another. We ate together and we listened to one another." Eating together, listening to one another, sharing food. The memory evoked a familiar, now nostalgic, sense of touch in them all.

Remembrance of Things Past, Marcel Proust

My grandfather Frank Lloyd Wright wore a red sash on his wedding night. That is glamour!

You must go back with me to the autumn of 1827.