Quotes About Nostalgia

But seriously Holden, what is the island called now?" "Sentosa," Holden said romantically and with a flourish of his unoccupied left hand. "Sentosa. Sounds romantic all right. So this is the progress you're talking about?

Yo me dejo estar. Pienso, no, no pienso, mejor dicho, recibo de mi adentro una nostalgia dulce, un sufrimiento más dulce que una incertidumbre de amor. Y

Qué lástima que pase el tiempo ¿verdad?, qué lástima que nos muramos y que nos hagamos viejos y que las cosas buenas se vayan alejando de nosotros al galope.

I suppose all the movies I've seen will be worth nothing to me when I die. Wrong. They'll be worth something, believe me. Don't stop going to the movies.

I try to find the books that I lost or forgot more than 30 years ago on another continent, with the hope and dedication and bitterness of those who search for their first lost books, books that if found I wouldn't read anyway, because I've already read them over and over, but that I would look at and touch just as the miser strokes the coins under which he's buried...Books are like ghosts

Above the street, like a hanged man, swings the spot-lit sign of the neighborhood's best restaurant, closed a long time ago.

It would be interesting to remember the dreams I had here, at the Del Mar, more than ten years ago. I probably dreamed about girls and punishment, the way all boys that age do.

dizzied, thrilled, depressed by remembering...

Y entonces yo llegué al año 1968 o el año 1968 llegó a mí. Yo ahora podría decir que lo presentí, que sentí su olor en los bares, en febrero o en marzo del 68, pero antes de que el año '68 se convirtiera realmente en año '68. Me da risa recordarlo, me dan ganas de llorar ¿estoy llorando?

I kept thinking about my father's stony plot of land and much later, when I'd lost touch with him, each time I went back to that barren place I thought about the buried pyramids, about the one time I'd seen him riding over the tops of the pyramids, and I imagined him in the hut, when he was left alone and sat there smoking.

So the firm essentially consisted of Juan Arenas and me, and since we had hardly anything to do and we liked to talk, we spent most of the day talking. At night he would give me a ride home and as we crossed a Mexico City like a fading nightmare, I would sometimes think that Juan Arenas was my happier reincarnation.

y la pesadilla me decía: crecerás. dejarás atrás las imágenes del dolor y del laberinto y olvidarás. pero en aquel tiempo crecer hubiera sido un crimen. estoy aquí, dije, con los perros románticos y aquí me voy a quedar.

A veces me acuerdo de Laura Damián. No mucho, unas cuatro o cinco veces por día.

Poi il mio amico era tornato a Irapuato e io ero rimasto nel DF e in qualche modo tutti e due avevamo cercato di disinteressarci del lento naufragio delle nostre vite, del lento naufragio dell'estetica, dell'etica, del Messico e dei nostri sogni del cazzo.

Ay, que lastima que ya no hagan mezcal Los Suicidas. Qué lástima que pase el tiempo ¿verdad? Que lástima que nos muramos y que nos hagamos viejos y que las cosas buenas se vayan alejando de nosotros al galope.

Looking back over our shoulders, the Cathedral looked so big, so strong, like from some movie.

The world is full of people whose notion of a satisfactory future is, in fact, a return to the idealized past.

Remember with your heart. Go back, go back and go back. The skies of this world were always meant to have dragons. When they are not here, humans miss them. Some never think of them, of course. But some children, from the time they are small, they look up at the blue summer sky and watch for something that never comes. Because they know. Something that was supposed to be there faded and vanished. Something that we must bring back, you and I.

Like a flower pressed flat and dried, we try to hold it still and say, this is exactly how it was the day I first saw it. But like the flower, the past cannot be trapped that way. It loses its fragrance and and its vitality, its fragility becomes brittleness and its colors fade. And when next you look on the flower, you know that it is not at all what you sought to capture, that that moment has fled forever.

It was possible to be homesick for a time, and to be lonely for the only other person who could recall it.

His heart had pounded with joy at the thought that he might catch her, might playfully hold her in his arms, for just a moment. They were children, I suddenly saw, children at play, only a handful of years older than I was now. They had never grown older, neither one of them, not really. All their lives she had remained that girl to him, that wondrous girl just a few years older than he was, but so worldly wise, so female to all that was so male in his life.

I want to go home,' he muttered as he totered down the road beside me. 'Me, too,' I told him. And yet it was not Buckkeep that came to my mind, but a meadow overlooking the sea, and a girl in bright red skirts who beckoned me. A time, rather than a place. No road led there anymore.

But we are two old men, who have grown old together. Sometimes that is a greater closeness. We have come through time to your day and age. We can talk together, quietly, and share memories of a time that exists no more. I can tell you how it was, but it is not the same. It is like being two foreigners, trapped in a land we have come to, unable to return to our own, and having only each other to confirm the reality of the place we once lived.

No man can return to being a boy. But there are interludes in a man's life when, for a time, he can recapture the feeling that the world is a forgiving place and that he is immortal.