Quotes About Nostalgia

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.

I wish I could have the ability to write down the feelings I have now while I'm still little, because when I grow up I will know how to write, but I will have forgotten what being little feels like.

What I want back is what I was Before the bed, before the knife, Before the brooch-pin and the salve Fixed me in this parenthesis; Horses fluent in the wind, A place, a time gone out of mind.

memory throws a kind of halo around him.

ache and ache to return to my proper place, which is curled up right there, sheltered and cherished

In May, anything seemed possible. If only I could learn to harness time itself. To make every month like May! Or, perhaps, to live backward in time, so that whenever the end of the month arrived, I could turn May right around and live it all over again.

From her first day with us, Kandy took lunch at the counter in Cuddy's.  They claim to serve "homestyle!" food there and, if you grew up in a cold war bunker, it might come pretty close because at Cuddy's they open an awful lot of cans.

So I find words I never thought to speak In streets I never thought I should revisit When I left my body on a distant shore.

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices in the lost lilac and the lost sea voices and the weak spirit quickens to rebel for the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell quickens to recover.

It seems, as one becomes older, That the past has another pattern, and ceases to be a mere sequence

Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed. And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; 180 Departed, have left no addresses.

mixing Memory and desire

I thought that if I died To you, I who had only been a ghost to you, You might be able to find the road back To a time when you were real -

I grow old...I grow old... I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk along the beach. I have the heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think they will sing to me.

There's no memory you can wrap in camphor But the moths will get in.

I grow old … I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

I grow old ... I grow old ... I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.

I am the old house With the noxious smell and the sorrow before morning, In which all past is present, all degradation Is unredeemable.

Nessun maggior dolore Che di ricordar del tempo felice Nella miseria. . . .

Music really did mean something to him, he realized, and it always had. It called to him, although there were no words to describe what it promised. It was like a secret language he never forgot how to speak, a hometown he could always return to when he tired of what life was throwing at him.

When you were old, did your memories crowd out your other thoughts? Or did you lose them—your childhood, your hated enemies, your friends?

God grant me a quick honorable death, Isgrimnur prayed, and never let me be one of those old fools who sits by the campfire telling the young men that things will never be as good as they once were.

Of all the songs we Zida'ya sing, she (Aditu) murmured, the closest to our hearts are those which tell of things lost. Perhaps that is because none of us can show something's value until it is gone, said Josua.

It was like music, the kind her parents listened to, with violins and other old instruments starting almost silently then growing before you noticed it into a huge noise.