Quotes About Nostalgia

old stories are like old friends (...) you have to visit them from time to time.

Look at me!" he would shout as he ran laughing through the halls of Storm's End. "Look at me, I'm a dragon," or "Look at me, I'm a wizard," or "Look at me, look at me, I'm the rain god." The bold little boy with wild black hair and laughing eyes was a man grown now, one-and-twenty, and still he played his games. Look at me, I'm a king, Cressen thought sadly.

She remembered the godswood, drooping branches heavy with moisture, and the sound of her brother's laughter as he chased her through piles of damp leaves.

I have never forgotten, and I can't imagine you have, and I've thought of it over the years. It was so good, when it was good, I kept thinking. How could it go wrong?

No," said Bran. "I haven't. And if I have it doesn't matter. Sometimes Old Nan would tell the same story she'd told before, but we never minded, if it was a good story. Old stories are like old friends, she used to say. You have to visit them from time to time.

All my memories are poisoned

The rain feels good against my face, Sam. It feels like tears. Let me stay a while longer, I pray you. It has been a long time since last I wept.

As she watched him, this tall young man with the new beard and the direwolf prowling at his heels, all she could see was the babe they had laid at her breast at Riverrun, so long ago.

But they were all dead now, even Arya, everyone but her half-brother, Jon. Some nights she heard talk of him, in the taverns and brothels of the Ragman's Harbor. The Black Bastard of the wall, one man had called him. Even Jon would never know Blind Beth, i bet. That made her sad.

Ah, I could tell you everything about her. Who she was, how we met, the color of her eyes, and the shape of her nose. I can see her, right in front of me. She's more real than you are.

Bones, Catelyn thought. This is not Ned, this is not the man I loved, the father of my children. His hands were clasped together over his chest, skeletal fingers curled about the hilt of some longsword, but they were not Ned's hands, so strong and full of life. They had dressed the bones in Ned's surcoat, the fine white velvet with the direwolf badge over the heart, but nothing remained of the warm flesh that had pillowed her head so many nights, the arms that had held her.

Sometimes Old Nan would tell the same story she'd told before, but we bever mindedn if it was a good story. Old stories are like old friends, she use to saym you have to visit them from time to time.

D'you remember that cave? We should have stayed in that cave. I told you so.

In those days, the smell of leather and blood had clung to him like perfume. Now it was perfume that clung to him like perfume,

I know a song about him. But I thought he lived a hundred years ago. We all did. Once I was as young as you.

Black Wind was Asha's longship. He had not seen his sister in ten years, but that much he knew of her. Odd that she would call it that, when Robb Stark had a wolf named Grey Wind. "Stark is grey and Greyjoy's black," he murmured, smiling, "but it seems we're both windy.

I often spend half the night with ghosts, remembering times fifty years past as if they were yesterday. The mystery of a midnight visitor is a welcome diversion.

trying to remember was like trying to catch the rain with her fingers.

That is how it is when a man grows as old as Pycelle. Everything you see or hear reminds you of something you saw or heard when you were young.

Aguja era Robb, Bran, Rickon, su madre y su padre, hasta Sansa. Aguja era los muros grises de Invernalia y las risas de sus habitantes. Aguja era las nieves del verano, los cuentos de la Vieja Tata, el árbol corazón con sus hojas rojas y su rostro aterrador, el cálido olor a tierra de los jardines de cristal, el sonido del viento del norte contra los postigos de su habitación. Aguja era la sonrisa de Jon Nieve»

The rain feels so good against my face, Sam. It feels like tears. Let me stay awhile longer, I pray you. It has been a long time since I last wept.

He went to the window seat, picked up a harp, and ran his fingers lightly over its silvery strings. Sweet sadness filled the room as man and wife and babe faded like the morning mist, only the music lingering behind to speed her on her way.

I know every book of mine by its smell, and I have but to put my nose between the pages to be reminded of all sorts of things.

I wonder where my big, black man has gone; Oh, I wonder where my big, black man has gone. Has he done got faded an' left me all alone?