Quotes About Nostalgia

My neck and shoulders and back ached fiercely after a day spent bending over boxes of starch. I tried singing softly to keep my spirits up, but the only songs I knew by heart were the hymns we sang at school. After one verse of 'He Who Would Valiant Be' I was in tears. I thought of Olivia and Mr Andrews. I was in such a state I almost felt nostalgic for hawk-nosed Mounty.

Just then the cottage door opened – and a tall, broad-shouldered man strode in, smelling of fresh air and honest toil. He looked around the room and then stood still, looking stunned. 'Hetty – oh, my Hetty!' he cried. 'Jem!

Rose,' I said. Well. It was

Milly-Molly-Mandy

them, and all our old 78 records, all the afternoon.

She thought the flat would be all the better for some photographs, not only to serve as reminders of those who were loved, or reflections of happy times spent in company, but to act as mirrors, where she might see the affection with which she was held by those dear to her.

There was no bathroom—there wouldn't be a bathroom until I was almost fourteen, the same year America put a man on the moon. But we had a proper outside WC with a tall rusting iron cistern high up on the wall and a chain for the flush. There was no mains drainage and it often fell to my father to unblock the septic because the access cover for the system that served the whole street was just outside our kitchen window. Oh, those Victorian builders were a clever lot!

There's only one thing left to do. St. Paul's on Old Year's Night. For Auld Lang Syne, my dears. For old time's sake.

Then as each month, each year passed, it was as if the memory of you - of us… the explosion - were encased in a fine tissue-paper.' … 'I felt as if I were looking through a window to my own past, and instead of being transparent, my view was becoming more and more opaque, until eventually the time had passed. The time for coming to see you had passed.

I lifted my head to look up into the changing leaves, thinking how at some point, we were all headed home. At some point, all of this, everything and everyone, became memory.

Somewhere in my brain each laugh, tear and lullaby becomes memory .

He loved October. Had always loved it. There was something sad and beautiful about it - the ending and beginning of things.

grité que por favor que no volviéramos nunca, nunca jamás a casa. Por supuesto, volvimos.

Americans should never come to Europe,' she said, and tried to laugh and began to cry, 'it means they never can be happy again. What's the good of an American who isn't happy? Happiness was all we had.

He smiled, Why, you will go home and then you will find that home is not home anymore. Then you will really be in trouble. As long as you stay here, you can always think: One day I will go home. He played with my thumb and grinned. N'est-ce pas ? Beautiful logic, I said. You mean I have a home to go to as long as I don't go there? He laughed. Well, isn't it true? You don't have a home until you leave it and then, when you have left it, you never can go back.

I scarcely know how to describe that room. It became, in a way, every room I had ever been in and every room I find myself in hereafter will remind me of Giovanni's room.

On days like this, Cass said, suddenly, I remember what it was like--I think I remember--to be young, very young. She looked up at him. When everything, touching and tasting--everything--was so new, and even suffering was wonderful because it was so complete.

Why, you will go home and then you will find that home is not home any more. Then you will really be in trouble. As long as you stay here, you can always think: One day I will go home. [...] Beautiful logic, I said. You mean I have a home to go to as long as I don't go there? He laughed. Well, isn't it true? You don't have a home until you leave it and then, when you have left it, you never can go back.

Why, you will go home and then you will find that home is not home anymore. Then you will really be in trouble. As long as you stay here, you can always think: One day I will go home.

Well isn't it true? You don't have a home until you leave it and then, when you have left it, you can never go back.' 'I seem', I said, 'to have heard this song before.' 'Ah, yes', said Giovanni, 'and you will certainly hear it again. It is one of those songs that somebody, somewhere, will always be singing.

I scarcely know how to describe that room. It became, in a way, every room I had ever been in and every room I find myself in hereafter will remind me of Giovanni's room.

The sunlight came into the room with the peacefulness one remembers from rooms in one's early childhood—a sunlight encountered later only in one's dreams.

I was often allowed to watch them drink their cocktails.

No matter how it seems now, I must confess: I loved him. I do not think I will ever love anyone like that again.