Quotes About Nostalgia

Olivia would be everywhere and his mind went back to those early days when he had loved her, refused to see the emptiness behind the exquisite beauty of her face.

So now she and I are friends - not with benefits, but memories.

Se puede desear algo que no se sabe qué es, añorar una felicidad que quién sabe si exista, sentir nostalgia por lo desconocido?

I understood we used to be close. But they were like books i'd read two summer ago; I knew I'd liked them, but I couldn't tell you now what they'd been about.

I will never forget that moments, or the moments that came after

La memoria es una cosa caprichosa. Y a veces, estamos condenados a repetir las cosas que hemos olvidado.

To me, reading through old letters and journals is like treasure hunting. Somewhere in those faded, handwritten lines there is a story that has been packed away in a dusty old box for years.

Like most little girls, I found the lure of grown-up accessories astonishing - lipstick, perfume, hats and gloves. When I write female characters in my historical novels, getting these details right is vital.

The 1950s is a key decade in the 20th Century. Each year has a distinctive flavour.

I wondered if that was what I was doing myself – caring so much about something that was so long gone that I was only propping it up.

It was nearly ten years since the peace though her memories of the war still felt fresh.

Jack had been the love of her life and he was gone. It seemed now that there had never been bad times, though she knew that wasn't true.

Parts of my 20s and 30s have gone by in a flash but my childhood is with me all the time.

I'm in my 40s and I'm constantly surprised by how much my childhood still plays a part in my life.

It's not until you're older that you realise how important the things that happened to you when you were a kid are. Even things you only half remember.

The smell of tobacco usually reminded Mirabelle of being a child – coming downstairs in the morning when the dinner party her parents had hosted the night before was cleared away, but the scent of cigars still lingered.

The old London was fading from her memory. She no longer expected to see the shops that had been bombed when she passed familiar streets. In many places the sites were being redeveloped. That's what seemed real now – the new buildings and the flats above them. As she hit her stride, Mirabelle smiled. It felt good to be in the big city again and on her way.

Mirabelle? Mirabelle Bevan? Well, I'll be blowed!" Mirabelle started, almost spilling her drink. It took her a moment to realize who the handsome man was, now his hair was greying at the edges and he was out of uniform. Puffing laconically on a cigarette, martini in hand, he wore a lounge suit and an understated silk tie with a discreet regimental insignia woven into the fabric. "Eddie," she smiled. "What are you doing here?

The world is tired, the year is old, The faded leaves are glad to die...

Stephen kissed me in the spring, Robin in the fall, But Colin only looked at me And never kissed at all. Stephen's kiss was lost in jest, Robin's lost in play, But the kiss in Colin's eyes Haunts me night and day.

It was a night of early spring, The winter-sleep was scarcely broken; Around us shadows and the wind Listened for what was never spoken. Though half a score of years are gone, Spring comes as sharply now as then— But if we had it all to do It would be done the same again. It was a spring that never came; But we have lived enough to know That what we never have, remains; It is the things we have that go.

Only In Sleep Only in sleep I see their faces, Children I played with when I was a child, Louise comes back with her brown hair braided, Annie with ringlets warm and wild. Only in sleep Time is forgotten -- What may have come to them, who can know? Yet we played last night as long ago, And the doll-house stood at the turn of the stair. The years had not sharpened their smooth round faces, I met their eyes and found them mild -- Do they, too, dream of me, I wonder, And for them am I too a child?

Only in sleep I see their faces, Children I played with when I was a child, Louise comes back with her brown hair braided, Annie with ringlets warm and wild. Only in sleep Time is forgotten– What may have come to them, who can know? Yet we played last night as long ago, And the doll-house stood at the turn of the stair. The years had not sharpened their smooth around faces, I met their eyes and found them mild– Do they, too, dream of me, I wonder, And for them am I, too, a child?

The years had not sharpened their smooth round faces, I met their eyes and found them mild— Do they, too, dream of me, I wonder, And for them am I too a child?