Quotes About Nostalgia

The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.

There was a beautiful time...

I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. --From the poem Mad Girl's Love Song

I said: I must remember this, being small.

I sometimes think my vision of the sea is the clearest thing I own. I pick it up, exile that I am, like the purple 'lucky stones' I used to collect with a white ring all the way round, or the shell of a blue mussel with its rainbowy angel's fingernail interior; and in one wash of memory the colors deepen and gleam, the early world draws breath.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.

They would grow old. They would forget me.

The sight of all the food stacked in those kitchens made me dizzy. It's not that we hadn't enough to eat at home, it's just that my grandmother always cooked economy joints and economy meat loafs and had the habit of saying, the minute you lifted the first forkful to your mouth, I hope you enjoy that, it cost forty-one cents a pound, which always made me feel I was somehow eating pennies instead of Sunday roast.

Rain on roof outside window, gray light, deep covers and warm blankets. Rain and nip of autumn in air; nostalgia, itch to work better and bigger. That crisp edge of autumn.

Evde de karn?m?z doymuyor deÄŸildi ama büyükannem, piÅŸirdiÄŸi ucuz et yemeklerinin daha ilk lokmas?n? aÄŸz?m?za götürürken, Umar?m beÄŸenirsiniz, ÅŸunun yar?m kilosuna tam k?rk bir sent verdim, deme al??kanl???na sahipti, ben de o zaman bir pazar günü rostosu yerine madeni paralar? yiyormuÅŸum duygusuna kap?l?rd?m.

I remember a blue eye, A briefcase of tangerines.

And while Constantin and I sat in one of those hushed plush auditoriums in the UN, next to a stern muscular Russian girl with no makeup who was a simultaneous interpreter like Constantin, I thought how strange it had never occurred to me before that I was only purely happy until I was nine years old.

I was thinking that if I'd had the sense to go on living in that old town I might just have met this prison guard in school and married him and had a parcel of kids now. It would be nice, living by the sea with piles of kids and pigs and chickens, wearing what my grandmother called wash dresses, and sitting about in some kitchen with bright linoleum and fat arms, drinking pots of coffee.

And this is how it stiffens, my vision of that seaside childhood. My father died, we moved inland. Whereon those nine first years of my life sealed themselves off like a ship in a bottle—beautiful, inaccessible, obsolete, a fine, white flying myth.

the whole sprawling paraphernalia of suburban childhood.

I know I'll always think of you with something like hurt and nostalgia— — from a letter to Ann Davdiow-Goodman, written 1951

Everywhere, imperceptibly or otherwise, things are passing, ending, going. And there will be other summers, other band concerts, but never this one, never again, never as now. Next year I will not be the self of this year now. And that is why I laugh at the transient, the ephemeral; laugh, while clutching, holding, tenderly, like a fool his toy, cracked glass, water through fingers.

I was only purely happy until I was nine years old. I had never really been happy again.

It's not that we hadn't enough to eat at home, it's just that my grandmother always cooked economy joints and economy meat loafs and had the habit of saying, the minute you lifted the first forkful to your mouth, 'I hope you enjoy that, it cost forty-one cents a pound,' which always made me feel I was somehow eating pennies instead of Sunday roast.

It was a long time ago. It doesn't matter anymore. And yet I cannot let it go. I cannot let it go.

I thought how strange it had never occurred to me before that I was only purely happy until I was nine years old. After that--in spite of the Girl Scouts and the piano lessons and the water-color lessons and the dancing lessons and the sailing camp, all of which my mother scrimped to give me, and college with crewing in the mist before breakfast and blackbottom pies and the little new firecrackers of ideas going off every day-- I had never been really happy again.

I thought how strange it had never occurred to me before that I was only purely happy until I was nine years old

Avocados are my favorite fruit. Every Sunday my grandfather used to bring me an avocado pear hidden at the bottom of his briefcase under six soiled shirts and the Sunday comics. He taught me how to eat avocados by melting grape jelly and french dressing together in a saucepan and filling the cup of the pear with the garnet sauce. I felt homesick for that sauce. The crabmeat tasted bland in comparison.

Van egy nap, amelyet sosem fogsz elfelejteni, bármennyire próbálod is. Mindig eszedbe jut, amikor eljön a nyár, s már eléggé meleg az idÅ' az evezéshez. Amikor itt az elsÅ' kéklÅ' júniusi nap, kél az emlék, elevenen, kristálytisztán, mintha könnyeken át látnád… (Egy júniusi nap)