Quotes About Nostalgia

A real hansom-cab took him from the station to Trinity College: the vehicle, it seemed, had been waiting there especially for him, desperately holding out against extinction till that moment, and then gladly dying out to join side whiskers and the Large Copper.

Only a Chinaman or a retarded child can imagine being met, in that Next-Installment World, to the accompaniment of all sorts of tail-wagging and groveling of welcome, by the mosquito executed eighty years ago upon one's bare leg, which has been amputated since then and now, in the wake of the gesticulating mosquito, comes back, stomp, stomp, stomp, here I am, stick me on.

The more you love a memory, the stronger and the stranger it becomes.

me pregunto si fue entonces, en el resplandor de aquel verano remoto, cuando empezó a hendirse mi vida.

Tengo la habilidad de verter torrentes de lágrimas evocando tempestades pasadas

And I catch myself thinking today that our long journey had only been defiled with a sinuous trail of slime the lovely, trustful, dreamy, enormous country that by then, in retrospect, was no more to us than a collection of dog-eared maps, ruined tour books, old tires, and her sobs in the night - every night, every night - the moment I feigned sleep.

A sentyment staje siÄ™ uci??liwy. W koÅ"cu jest coÅ› nazbyt fizycznego w próbie zachowania czÄ…stki dzieciÅ"stwa na swoim mostku. - Nie pan pierwszy sprowadza wiarÄ™ do zmysÅ'u dotyku.

I see again my schoolroom in Vyra, the blue roses of the wallpaper, the open window. Its reflection fills the oval mirror above the leathern couch where my uncle sits, gloating over a tattered book. A sense of security, of well-being, of summer warmth pervades my memory. That robust reality makes a ghost of the present. The mirror brims with brightness; a bumblebee has entered the room and bumps against the ceiling. Everything is as it should be, nothing will ever change, nobody will ever die.

He never saw that dress again and when he mentioned it in retrospective evocation she invariably retorted that he must have dreamt it

The days of my youth, as I look back on them, seem to fly away from me in a flurry of pale repetitive scraps like those morning snow storms of used tissue paper that a train passenger sees whirling in the wake of the observation car.

I almost said—trying to find some casual remark—'I wonder sometimes what has become of the little McCoo girl, did she ever get better?'—but stopped in time lest she rejoin: 'I wonder sometimes what has become of the little Haze girl . . .

Vladimir Nabokov

Kai atsigr?ži ? savo jaunyst?s dienas, jos atrodo kaip nuo man?s tolstantis blankus pakartotini? skiau?i? s?kurys, kaip rytinis spie?ius sunaudot? popier?li?, matomas Amerikos ekspreso keleivio pro paskutinio vagono galin? lang?, už kurio jie s?kuriuoja.

Once a perfect little beauty in a tartan frock, with a clatter put her heavily armed foot near me upon the bench to dip her slim bare arms into me and tighten the strap of her roller skate, and I dissolved in the sun, with my book for fig leaf, as her auburn ringlets fell all over her skinned knee, and the shadow of leaves I shared pulsated and melted on her radiant limb next to my chameleonic cheek.

I have nothing but very sad associations with the Old and rotting World. No colored ads in your magazines will change the situation.' 'My

In the good old days, by merely twisting fat Valechka's brittle wrist (the one she had fallen upon from a bicycle) I could make her change her mind instantly;

I remember once handling an automatic belonging to a fellow student, in the days (I have not spoken of them, I think, but never mind) when I toyed with the idea of enjoying his little sister, a most diaphanous nymphet with a black hair bow, and then shooting myself.

When I was a child and she was a child, my little Annabel was no nymphet to me; I was her equal, a faunlet in my own right, on that same enchanted island of time;

We had been everywhere. We had really seen nothing. And I catch myself thinking today that our long journey had only defiled with a sinuous trail of slime the lovely, trustful, dreamy, enormous country that by then, in retrospect, was no more to us than a collection of dog-eared maps, ruined tour books, old tires, and her sobs in the night—every night, every night—the moment I feigned sleep.

Goodness, what crazy purchases were prompted by the poignant predilection Humbert had in those days for check weaves, bright cottons, frills, puffed-out short sleeves, soft pleats, snug-fitting bodices and generously full skirts! Oh Lolita, you are my girl, as Vee was Poe's and Bea Dante's, and what little girl would not like to whirl in a circular skirt and scanties

We had been everywhere. We had really seen nothing. And I catch myself thinking today that our long journey had only defiled with a sinuous trail of slime the lovely, trustful, dreamy, enormous country that by then, in retrospect, was no more to us than a colleges of dog eared maps, ruined your books, old tires and her sobs in the night- every night, every night- the moment i feigned sleep.

The past was safe in its cage. Why not have a look?

?i eu priveam, o priveam È™i am înÈ›eles, clar, aÈ™a cum È™tiu c? o s? mor, c? o iubisem cum nu iubisem nimic din ceea ce v?zusem sau imaginasem pe p?mânt sau sperasem s? întâlnesc altundeva. Nu mai era decât adierea slab? a violetei È™i ecoul de frunz? moart? al nimfetei peste care m? rostogolisem cu asemenea strig?te în trecut.

He tried to recall his best moments with her, but those moments were poisoned forever.