Quotes About Nostalgia

But I never forgot Florence. And now, my wife has passed away, and I wondered if it was possible that Florence still remembered me as I remember her.

I wanted to rub handprints through his dust

I remembered when my oldest brother married Malgosia, and suddenly the two of them stopped running around with us and started sitting with the parents: a very solemn kind of alchemy, one that I felt shouldn't have been able to just sneak up on me.

I know i'm making her sound like something out of a story. But it was the other way around. When my mother told me stories about the spinning princess or the brave goose-girl or the river-maiden, in my head I imagined them all a little like Kasia; that was how I thought of her. And I wasn't old enough to be wise, so I loved her more, not less, because I knew she would be taken from me soon.

If I could have remembered, at least some of the words would have been wrong: like hearing again a half-remembered favorite tale from childhood and finding it unsatisfying, or at least not as I'd remembered it.

Only in words on a page can it still be yesterday.

the years we never thought would stick to us have stuck now we are as old as people in the stories

as a boy stands back from his earlier self mocking it and the light of fireflies blinking against an old fence has become as sad as it is lovely because so many hands are gone by now it is not that we wanted the light to be caught      but reached for that was it

I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes.

Here is dust remembers it was a rose one time and lay in a woman's hair. Here is dust remembers it was a woman one time and in her hair lay a rose. Oh things one time dust, what else now is it you dream and remember of old days? ? Carl Sandburg, "Dust," The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg . (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt; First Edition edition January 6, 2003) Originally published 1950.

Few things are more deceptive than memories.

Remember me, even if it's only in a corner and secretly. Don't let me go.

Pocas cosas marcan tanto a un lector como el primer libro que realmente se abre camino hasta su corazón. Aquellas primeras imágenes, el eco de esas palabras que creemos haber dejado atrás, nos acompañan toda la vida y esconden un palacio en nuestra memoria al que, tarde o temprano –no importa cuántos libros leamos, cuántos mundos descubramos, cuánto aprendamos u olvidemos–, vamos a regresar.

He was a very private person, and sometimes it seemed to me that he was no longer interested in the world or in other people... I got the feeling that Julián was living in the past, locked in his memories. Julián lived within himself, for his books and inside them - a comfortable prison of his own design. You say this as if you envied him. There are worse prisons than words.

Aquella noche Mijail me contó que él creía que la vida nos concede a cada uno de nosotros unos escasos momentos de pura felicidad. A veces son sólo dias o semanas. A veces, años. Todo depende de nuestra fortuna. El recuerdo de esos momentos nos acompaña para siempre y se transforma en un país de la memoria al que tratamos de regresar durante el resto de nuestra vida sin consegurilo.

Siempre había pensado que las viejas estaciones de ferrocarril eran uno de los pocos lugares mágicos que quedaban en el mundo. En ellas se mezclaban los fantasmas de recuerdos y despedidas con el inicio de cientos de viajes a destinos lejanos, sin retorno. Si algun dia me pierdo, que me busquen en una estación de tren, pensé.

Whoever said that childhood is the happiest time of your life is a liar, or a fool.

Max had once read in one of his father's books that some childhood images become engraved in the mind like photographs, like scenes you can return to again and again and will always remember, no matter how much time goes by.

Me crié entre libros, haciendo amigos invisibles en páginas que se deshacían en polvo y cuyo olor aún conservo en las manos

I carried the trace of her lips, of her breath on my skin through streets full of faceless people escaping from offices and shops.

Few things leave a deeper mark on a reader than the first book that finds it's way into his heart. Those first images, the echo of words we think we have left behind, accompany us throughout our lives and sculpt a palace in our memory...

Te mi je no?i Mijail rekao da on misli da nam život svima priskrbi nekoliko rijetkih trenutaka ?iste sre?e. Katkad je to samo nekoliko dana ili tjedana. Katkad godine. Sve ovisi o našoj sudbini. Uspomena na te trenutke prati nas zauvijek i pretvara se u zemlju uspomena u koju se pokušavamo vratiti ostatak života, bezuspješno.

El mar lo devuelve todo después de un tiempo, especialmente los recuerdos.

No sé ahora dónde leí una vez que en el fondo nunca hemos sido el de antes, que sólo recordmos lo que nunca sucedió...