Quotes About Nostalgia

He had given Cosette a dress of Binche lace that had come down to him from his own grandmother. "These fashions have come round again," he said, "old things are all the rage, and the young women of my old age dress like the old women of my childhood

There is still a certain grace in a dead festival. It has been happy.

Sono questi gli effetti dell'amore, dell'infanzia, della gioventù, della gioia. La novità della terra e della vita c'entra per qualche cosa. Nulla è incantevole come il riflesso colorante della felicità sulla soffitta. Tutti abbiamo nel nostro passato una soffitta azzurra.

Everything looked charming to him now. Never again would he read these books, write on this little white wooden table!

Mais où sont les neiges d'antan? But where are the snows of years gone by?

Vous rappelez-vous notre douce vie, Lorsque nous étions si jeunes tous deux, Et que nous n'avions au coeur d'autre envie Que d'être bien mis et d'être amoureux! Lorsqu'en ajoutant votre âge à mon âge, Nous ne comptions pas à deux quarante ans, Et que, dans notre humble et petit ménage, Tout, même l'hiver, nous était printemps!

Leni was pretty sure that, to her, childhood would always smell like sea air and cigarette smoke and her mother's rose-scented perfume.

Leni felt the sudden fragility of her world, of the world itself. She barely remembered Before. Maybe she didn't remember it at all, in fact. Maybe the images she did have-Dad lifting her onto his shoulders, pulling petals from a daisy, holding a buttercup to her chin, reading her a bedtime story-maybe these were all images she'd taken from pictures and imbued with an imagined life.

More and more often they talked about the old days, back when they'd been too young to know that they were young, when the whole world had seemed open to them and dreams were as easy to pick as daisies.

The past has a clarity I can no longer see in the present.

Home is part of us. It's in the scars we have on our knees and elbows, in the memories that surface when we sleep. I don't think you can ever really leave.

In rooms scented by dust, leather, and stone, she turns in the last of her father's dreams for her - that she will become a writer - she hands it in like an overdue book and takes joy in the words of others.

She smiled at the memory, even as it saddened her to think that somewhere along the way their dreams had untangled, gone on separate paths.

I feel like Dorothy, back in Kansas, a black-and-white girl in a black-and-white world, with memories in color.

Make her tell you the story of the peasant girl and the prince." As he said it, he closed his eyes again, and his breathing turned wheezy. "All of it this time." "I know what you're thinking, Dad. Her stories used to bring us together. For a while, I even thought . . . but I was wrong. She won't—" "Just try, okay? You've never heard it all.

It had been the first kiss for both of them, and to this day, when Dean kissed a woman, he longed for the smell of the sea.

The past has a clarity I can no longer see in the present. I want to imagine there will be peace when I am gone, that I will see all of the people I have loved and lost. At least that I will be forgiven.

Best friends forever. They'd believed it would last, that vow, that someday they'd be old women, sitting in their rocking chairs on a creaking desk, talking about the times of their lives, and laughing...

them up. Flowers blooming. A garden Ã¢â'¬Â¦ As she neared the house, the front door opened. A woman came out, wearing a pretty floral-print dress beneath a frilly red apron, and holding a broom. Her bobbed hair was carefully curled and a pair of wireless glasses magnified her eyes.

He hadn't realized how time could unspool the years of your life until for a second you were fourteen again, crying from a place so deep it seemed to predate you, desperate to be whole again.

In the years that she had been tying scraps to the branches, the tree had died and the fruit had turned bitter. The other apple trees were hale and healthy, but this one, the tree of her remembrances, was as black and twisted as the bombed-out town behind it.

Memories--even the best of them--faded.

God gave us memories so that we might have roses in December. —JAMES M. BARRIE

When you get older, you'll understand. There's a certain comfort in the familiar.