Quotes About Nostalgia

The Gray Ghost, by Seckatary Hawkins.

Ladies bathed before noon, after their three o'clock naps, and by nightfall were like soft tea-cakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcolm.

Ne zaman eve dönsem, dünyaya geri döndüÄŸüm duygusuna kap?l?yorum.

She was silent. Time stopped, shifted, and went lazily in reverse. Somehow, then, it was always summer.

Jean Louise had lost touch with nearly everyone she grew up with and did not wish particularly to rediscover the companions of her adolescence. Her schooldays were her most miserable days, she was unsentimental to the point of callousness about the women's college she had attended, nothing displeased her more than to be set in the middle of a group of people who played Remember Old So-and-So.

Miss Caroline was no more than twenty-one. She had bright auburn hair, pink cheeks, and wore crimson fingernail polish. She also wore high-heeled pumps and a red-and-white-striped dress. She looked and smelled like a peppermint drop. She boarded across the street one door down from us in Miss Maudie Atkinson's upstairs front room, and when Miss Maudie introduced us to her, Jem was in a haze for days.

She is the last of her kind, she thought. No wars had ever touched her, and she had lived through three; nothing had disturbed that world of hers, where gentlemen smoked on the porch or in hammocks, where ladies fanned themselves gently and drank cool water.

Haints, Hot Steams, incantations, secret signs had vanished with our years as mist with sunrise.

Ladies bathed before noon, after their three-o'clock naps, and by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum.

The night-crawlers had retired, but ripe chinaberries drummed on the roof when the wind stirred, and the darkness was desolate with the barking of distant dog.

Den varma bittersöta lukten av rena negrer

He gave us two soap dolls, a broken watch and chain, a pair of good luck pennies, and our lives.

Sitting and listening to people you went to school with is excruciating for an hour. To hear the same conversion day in and day out is better than the Chinese torture method.

the biography of a childhood which necessarily is the biography of a place, a way of life gone forever out of the world.

You can hide memories, but you can't erase the history that produced them.

For a long time, she held a special place in my heart. I kept this special place just for her, like a Reserved sign on a quiet corner table in a restaurant. Despite the fact that I was sure I'd never see her again.

No matter how much time passes, no matter what takes place in the interim, there are some things we can never assign to oblivion, memories we can never rub away.

If I stayed here, something inside me would be lost forever—something I couldn't afford to lose. It was like a vague dream, a burning, unfulfilled desire. The kind of dream people have only when they're seventeen.

With each passing moment I'm becoming part of the past. There is no future for me, just the past steadily accumulating.

I'll never see them again. I know that. And they know that. And knowing this, we say farewell.

Even so, there were times I saw freshness and beauty. I could smell the air, and I really loved rock 'n' roll. Tears were warm, and girls were beautiful, like dreams. I liked movie theaters, the darkness and intimacy, and I liked the deep, sad summer nights.

With my eyes closed, I would touch a familiar book and draw its fragrance deep inside me. This was enough to make me happy.

I'll write to you. A super-long letter, like in an old-fashioned novel

Everything, everything seemed once-upon-a-time.