Quotes About Nostalgia

La vita è triste, tra quei grattacieli, con tutte quelle straordinarie comodità, e gli ascensori, le porte girevoli, la metropolitana, e sempre case e palazzi e strade, e mai un po' di terra. Viene la malinconia.

This is time for us. Memory. A nostalgia. The pain of absence. But it isn't absence that causes sorrow. It is affection and love. Without affection, without love, such absences would cause us no pain. For this reason, even the pain caused by absence is in the end something good and even beautiful. Because it feeds on that which gives meaning to life.

But the past, he concluded, was as dead as a smashed Victrola record. "Chasing yesterdays," said he, "is a bum show".

I knew that even if I went back to them, after many years of loneliness in another land, I would not be able to pick up where I had left off.

It is often much harder to get rid of books than to acquire them. They stick to us in that pact of need and oblivion we make with them, witnesses to a moment in our lives we will never see again. While they are still there, it is part of us.

Ninguém quer extraviar um livro. Preferimos perder um anel, um relógio, o chapéu-de-chuva, do que o livro cujas páginas não mais leremos mas que conservam, na sonoridade do seu título, uma antiga e talvez perdida emoção.

Ço?unlukla bir kitaptan kurtulmak ona sahip olmaktan daha zordur. Kitaplar, sanki asla geri dönemeyece?imiz bir an?n tan?klar? gibi, bir ihtiyaç ve unutkanl?k anla?mas?yla tutunurlar insana.

Kimse bir kitap kaybetmek istemez. Bir daha okumayacak olsak da ba?l???nda eski, belki de kaybolmu? bir duyguyu ta??yan bir kitab? kaybetmektense bir yüzük, saat veya ?emsiye kaybetmeyi ye?leriz.

I stepped into the bookshop and breathed in that perfume of paper and magic that strangely no one had ever thought of bottling.

I was raised among books, making invisible friends in pages that seemed cast from dust and whose smell I carry on my hands to this day.

Once, in my father's bookshop, I heard a regular customer say that few things leave a deeper mark on a reader than the first book that finds its 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 to which, sooner or later—no matter how many books we read, how many worlds we discover, or how much we learn or forget—we will return.

When I say something like "back when I was in high school," I usually mean: "back when I was supposed to be in high school.

Mi patria escabrosa y recóndita, siempre esperando por mí. Riachuelos por cuya corriente huyen los peces rojos del pretérito imperfecto, montañas dentadas de gerundios, cuestas a rribas flanqueadas por signos de admiración y puntos suspensivos, angostos desfiladeros donde se hila la oración compuesta, árboles frondosos de adjetivos o desnudos de ellos, praderas atisbadas en sueños y a las que sólo se llega por el puente inestable del condicional.

Para visitar un recuerdo conviene -según creencia bastante extendida- haberlo cultivado antes.

I think of him in certain lights, dawn, late afternoon,...

Bittersweet October. The mellow, messy, leaf-kicking, perfect pause between the opposing miseries of summer and winter.

My grandmother and I saw an average of eight movies a week, double features, second run.

I'm glad I was born when I was. My time was the golden age of variety. If I were starting out again now, maybe things would happen for me, but it certainly would not be on a variety show with 28 musicians, 12 dancers, two major guest stars, 50 costumes a week by Bob Mackie. The networks just wouldn't spend the money today.

She lit another cigarette and smiled. "And that, kid, is when they added the S to the end of my last name." I laughed right through the kumquats. I miss her. She died early on the morning of my birthday in 1989, and I got my flowers and the card from her that afternoon.

he studied the two photographs he carried with him at all times: the first of his wife and children, the second, a portrait of him as a young man, singing on a street corner by his house.

Tabitha Trumbull's Vanilla Bread Pudding

AUNT IBBY'S GINGER PANCAKES WITH LEMON SAUCE

TABITHA TRUMBULL'S GRAPE-NUTS PUDDING

Aunt Ibby's Never-Fail Meringue