Quotes About Nostalgia

And it is silence that she hears, the silence of lost years that have no voice left in them.

I keep trying to bring back what is gone, the sunny, bygone years of my childhood," she would write over thirty years later, as if acknowledging the impossibility of this.40 From the child's point of view, the world may have been undiluted sun, though with a child's intuition, she must already have sensed the cracks in her paradise. From an adult perspective, it was a labyrinthine tangle of pain and

Buried in the minds of those of us who are lucky is a childhood landscape, a place of magic and imagination, a safe place. It is foundational, and we will return to it in memory and dreams throughout our lives.

As we grow older, we forget how near to the ground we once were. I do not mean merely because our heads were lower down than they are now, though of course that comes into it; but near in the sense of kinship. A small child is aware of the sights and smells and textures of the ground with an acute awareness that we lose in growing up.

would there not be another hunger on him all his life? For other scents and sights and sounds; pale and changeful northern skies and the green plover calling?

So Randal, who had never thought to be a knight, had his knighthood after all; and would have given all the world to be only Bevis's squire again.

I know someone who has never been able to read _The Cuckoo Clock_ since leaving her girlhood home, because it had to be read sitting halfway up the stairs, where the light through a stained-glass landing window fell on it, staining the pages red and blue and green.

I have a special "ah, here I am again, I know exactly what they are going to have for breakfast" feeling when I get back into Roman Britain, which is very nice.

Let her be with her memories. Better that than be aware of this reality.

It's only a house, she thought. But it was more, too. It was Tibby's elaborate, respectable shrine to a family life that had long ago ebbed out of it.

almost forgotten him. In her hours

She walked as she owned the world, or had owned it once and lost it but remembered how it felt.

Neighborhood grocery stores, coal yards, gas stations, cheap taverns, big old rundown houses, a few churches with blank embarrassed faces.

Try listening to yourself sometime, alone in a transient room in a strange town. The worst is when you draw a blank, and the ash-blonde ghosts of the past carry on long twittering long-distance calls with your inner ear, and there's no way to hang up.

It was a small room, and it was as crowded with coffee- and end-tables, chairs and hassocks and bookcases, as a second-hand furniture store. The horizontal surfaces were littered with gewgaws, shells and framed photographs, vases and pincushions and doilies. If the lady had come down in the world, she'd brought a lot down with her. My sensation of stepping into the past was getting too strong for comfort. The half-armed chair closed on me like a hand.

daughter?' 'She was a beautiful child.' Mrs Williams's eyes grew misty with the quasi-maternal feelings of a procuress.

The tea tasted like a clear dark dripping from the past. My grandmother came back with it, in crisp black funeral silks

It's interesting to come back to your childhood home. And creepy, too, like becoming very young and very old, both at the same time. The spirit that haunts the house.' That

It's interesting to come back to your childhood home. And creepy, too, like becoming very young and very old, both at the same time. The spirit that haunts the house.' That was how she looked, I thought, in her archaic long skirt – very young and very old, the granddaughter and the grandmother in one person, slightly schizo. She

On the other side of the tracks - the tracks were there - the business section wore its old Spanish facades like icing on a stale cake.

There. I said it. "Anne is my best friend: I say that in the present tense because I don't like to think of her as gone. Instead, I think of her as...away. Off someplace where I can't talk to her everyday like I used to.

After an awkward beat, she takes off, leaving me alone and inches away from the guy I used to pillow-kiss when I first knew there was such a thing as kissing and that pillows were for practicing said art.

I was born in Dixie in a boomer's shack,Just a little shanty by the railroad track,The humming of the drivers was my lullabyAnd a freight train whistle taught me how to cry.

Lejano clavicordio que en silencio y olvido no diste nunca al sueño la sublime sonata