Quotes About Nostalgia

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Había sentido un dedicado malestar, una quieta nostalgia. ¿El amor, Zavalita? Entonces nunca habías estado enamorado de Aída, piensa. ¿O el amor era ese gusano en las tripas que sentías años atrás? Piensa: entonces nunca de Ana, Zavalita.

Evocaba el sol, la luz blanca que bañaba todo el año las calles de la ciudad y las conservaba tibias, acogedoras, la excitación de los domingos, los paseos a Eten, la arena amarilla que abrasaba, el purísimo cielo azul. Levantaba la vista: nubes grises por todos partes, ni un punto claro. Regresaba a su casa, caminando despacio, arrastrando los pies como viejo.

MVLL: Pero ¿no hay una nostalgia en usted de cosas no hechas por haber dedicado tanto tiempo a la vida puramente intelectual? JLB: Creo que no. Creo que a la larga uno vive esencialmente todas las cosas y lo importante no son las experiencias, sino lo que uno hace con ellas.

Juventud, cuyo recuerdo desespera!

como la llamábamos yo y mi mamá)

If all histories have a period known as The Golden Age, somewhere between The Beginning and The End, I suppose those Sundays during Fall Semester at Hannah's were just that, or, to quote one of Dad's treasured characters of cinema, the illustrious Norma Desmond as she recalled the lost era of silent film: We didn't need dialogue. We had faces.

Nora, biting her lip, pointed at the small end table on my right, where there was a black-and-white photograph in an antique silver frame. It was Olivia standing with her husband, Knightly, probably some twenty years ago. They had their arms around each other, posing beside an antique Bentley in front of a colossal country manor. They looked happy, but, of course, that didn't say much. Everyone smiles for a photograph.

Because I saw, suddenly, how it would always be for me, Sam's life unfolding like slides in an old projector I'd always be clicking through in the dark, stunning leaps forward in time--but never the uncut reel.

Doesn't rain make a memory more intimate?

It was all quite ghastly and I was very fond of it.

A better time. A simpler time,' said the Doctor. 'That's what we all yearn for. The pain of wanting to belong somewhere. To go home.

You know, the Elizabethans thought nostalgia was a diagnosable disease. Perhaps they were right.

He was an arsehole, but, God, she looked at Richard sometimes, the racing bike, the way he did the crossword in pencil first. There were evenings when she wanted Dad to ride in off the plains, all dust and sweat and tumbleweed, kick open the saloon doors and stick some bullet holes in those fucking art books.

You can come back, his father had said. Why leave if I'll come back? Alessandro had asked, and then had quoted Horace. 'New skies the exile finds, but the heart is still the same.

On my last ride on the RR train I looked almost as lovingly at the faces and expressions of my fellow passengers as if I were staring a a photograph of times long past. They did not know that they made a photograph. They did not understand the vanishing background of their lives...

No one ever escapes Gloucester. Kids go off to college and settle somewhere else. But they always come back. If Gloucester is all you know, every place else seems a little phony.

feelings and times long gone come and live again, or basic truths hard to keep in view return.

Out of all the things I have lost, I miss my mind the most.

When I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it had happened or not; but my faculties are decaying now and soon I shall be so I cannot remember any but the things that never happened. It is sad to go to pieces like this but we all have to do it.

I realize that I have left part of myself in a place where I shall probably never come back.

I shall try to conjure up each of the sentences engraved in my memory which were either so unbearable or so comforting to me at the time that the mere thought of them today engulfs me in a wave of horror or sweetness.

Sauver quelque chose du temps où l'on ne sera plus jamais.

All memories soften with age, and the good ones are also the most perishable (...) conjured up till they faded to nothing. Like cave paintings by candlelight, she could only glimpse them now in the dark from the corner of her eye.