Quotes About Nostalgia

But then what are memories but shadows of objects gone to dust? Or

And at some length Dr. Bogart spoke of a period in which skies were bluer, water purer, potatoes better-grained than now. I know the speech. It is the tirade of the old.

I'm not at peace anymore. I just want him like I used to in the old days. I want to be eating sandwiches with him. I want to be drinking with him in a bar. I'm tired and I don't want anymore pain. I want Maurice. I want ordinary corrupt human love. Dear God, you know I want to want Your pain, but I don't want it now. Take it away for a while and give it me another time.

One forgets so quickly one's own youth…

Yesterday I went home with him and we did the usual things. I haven't the nerve to put them down, but I'd like to, because now when I'm writing it's already tomorrow and I'm afraid of getting to the end of yesterday. As long as I go on writing, yesterday is today and we are still together

In a crisis perhaps it is old clichés one clings to, like a child to a parent.

I shut my eyes and she was again the same as she used to be: she was the hiss of steam, the clink of a cup, she was a certain hour of the night and the promise of rest.

A picture postcard is a symptom of loneliness.

Feeling her against me, I was reminded of desire. Would that always be the case now—not desire, but only the reminder of it?

and then beginning to go back to what you can't even remember.

A first reading is something special, like first love.

As one grows old I think one becomes more attached to family things- to houses and graves.

Ante mí desfilaban imágenes de praderas que se extendían hasta el agua, de viejos castillos sobre colinas surcadas de viñedos y chicas en bicicleta. Todo parecía limpio, ordenado, seguro, como había sido mi propia vida antes del funeral de mi madre. Recordé mi jardín. Echaba de menos mis dalias.

Männer, die die Stadt für immer verlassen hatten, erinnerten sich manchmal an einem grauen, naßkalten Abend in London des rosigen Schimmers und der glühenden Pracht, die, kaum gesehen, auch schon wieder verblichen; sie fragten sich dann, warum sie die Küste so gehaßt hatten, und solange sie einen Tropfen im Glase hatten, sehnten sie sich danach, dorthin zurückzukehren.

When I came up from Brighton by the train': a rich Guinness voice, a voice from a public bar.

His heart beat and the band played, and inside the lean experienced skull lay childhood.

She dabbed at her eyes. 'You'd be bored, Henry. An unfinished bottle of champagne found in an old cupboard with all the sparkle gone …' The jaded phrase was worthy of a Haymarket author.

It tasted as beer had always tasted the few times she'd drunk it, like brown autumn leaves.

It's stupid, I know, but I care. All the things that meant so much when we were young. Under the blankets late at night, listening to long-distance radio. All those things lost now or broken. Can you remember? Can you remember that feeling? Perhaps I ought to go to a doctor.

I remembered the ancient flowers Charles had given me near Trés Haut Médoc, cut from the Glass Sea beds. Now he offered me a bouquet of stars. After the weariness and grief, Charles could still take my breath away.

A comforting sentiment, sir." Alfred took Bruce's empty tea cup from him. "One likes to think that Miss Doyle would agree.

Axonn sighed. Just like the good old days, he said. Now I remember why I hated them so much.

To all those adults who return home to repay the debt of childhood, and find they never really left. Listen while you still can.

The images I'd most like to wipe away cling to life with the tenacity of weeds, while those I want to treasure fade like the blush on a rose.