Quotes About Nostalgia

When old men met, they talked about the sea—

John Barry was my hero when I was about 13. His scores to the James Bond movies were the scores of my life back then.

Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh give me back my heart!

If I should meet thee After long years How should I greet thee? With silence and tears.

Oh could I feel as I have felt,-or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanish'd scene; As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be, So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me.

Il ricordo del piacere non è più piacere. Il ricordo del dolore è ancora dolore.

Our songs touch people, and take them back to a time when there was no threat of terrorism, when you didn't have to lock your doors and when Mom and Dad took care of everything.

...Lovers are Like walking ghosts, they always haunt the spot Of their misdeeds.

We always believe our first love is our last, and our last love our first.

Philosophy is really homesickness.

We also like obsolete styles because the past is dead, and hence contains no surprises.

No one can look back on his schooldays and say with truth that they were altogether unhappy.

He still has the same way of calling to me, as if I'm still new to him, as if he has yet to get over me.

Nothing makes the past a sweeter place to visit than the prospect of imminent death.

Old stories are like old friends, she used to say. You have to visit them from time to time.

Needle was Robb and Bran and Rickon, her mother and her father, even Sansa. Needle was Winterfell's grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows, Old Nan's stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. Needle was Jon Snow's smile. He used to mess my hair and call me "little sister," she remembered, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes.

The years leech at a man's memories, even those he has vowed never to forget.

All Daenerys wanted back was the big house with the red door, the lemon tree outside her window, the childhood she had never known.

When you smell our candles burning, what does it make you think of, my child?" Winterfell, she might have said. I smell snow and smoke and pine needles. I smell the stables. I smell Hodor laughing, and Jon and Robb battling in the yard, and Sansa singing about some stupid lady fair. I smell the crypts where the stone kings sit. I smell hot bread baking. I smell the godswood. I smell my wolf. I smell her fur, almost as if she were still beside me. "I don't smell anything," she said.

Can I dwell on what I scarce remember? I held a castle on the Marches once, and there was a woman I was pledged to marry, but I could not find that castle today, nor tell you the color of that woman's hair. Who knighted me, old friend? What were my favorite foods? It all fades. Sometimes I think I was born on the bloody grass in that grove of ash, with the taste of fire in my mouth and a hole in my chest. Are you my mother, Thoros?

She yearned to see her mother again, and Robb and Bran and Rickon… but it was Jon Snow she thought of most. She wished somehow they could come to the Wall before Winterfell, so Jon might muss up her hair and call her "little sister." She'd tell him, "I missed you," and he'd say it too at the very same moment, the way they always used to say things together. She would have liked that. She would have liked that better than anything.

I do so hope he plays us 'The Rains of Castamere.' It has been an hour. I've forgotten how it goes.

And Arya… he missed her even more than Robb, skinny little thing that she was, all scraped knees and tangled hair and torn clothes, so fierce and willful. Arya never seemed to fit, no more than he had… yet she could always make Jon smile. He would give anything to be with her now, to muss up her hair once more and watch her make a face, to hear her finish a sentence with him.

The air smelled of paper and dust and years.