Quotes About Nostalgia

My school-days! The silent gliding on of my existence—the unseen, unfelt progress of my life—from childhood up to youth! Let me think, as I look back upon that flowing water, now a dry channel overgrown with leaves, whether there are any marks along its course, by which I can remember how it ran.

At one of these a lonely boy was reading near a feeble fire; and Scrooge sat down upon a form, and wept to see his poor forgotten self as he used to be.

Yet the bells, when they sounded, told me sorrowfully of change in everything; told me of their own age, and my pretty Dora's youth; and of the many, never old, who had lived and loved and died, while the reverberations of the bells had hummed through the rusty armour of the Black Prince hanging up within, and, motes upon the deep of Time, had lost themselves in air, as circles do in water.

One always begins to forgive a place as soon as it's left behind;

Sleep came upon me as it came on many other outcasts, against whom house-doors were locked, and house-dogs barked, that night—and I dreamed of lying on my old school-bed, talking to the boys in my room; and found myself sitting upright, with Steerforth's name upon my lips, looking wildly at the stars that were glistening and glimmering above me.

Está feliz por se despedir de novo, Estella? Pois, para mim, as despedidas são uma coisa dolorosa. Para mim, a lembrança de nossa última despedida será sempre dolorosa.

What an idle time! What an insubstantial, happy, foolish time! Of all the times of mine that Time has in his grip, there is none that in one retrospect I can smile at half so much, and think of half so tenderly.

The beer has reminded me that I forgot.

We were very happy; and that evening, as the last of its race, and destined evermore to close that volume of my life, will never pass out of my memory.

There are not many places that I find it more agreeable to revisit, when I am in an idle mood, than some places to which I have never been.

When my thoughts go back, now, to that slow agony of my youth, I wonder how much of the histories I invented for such people hangs like a mist of fancy over well-remembered facts!

Ben öldükten sonra gün gelir, Richmond'daki ye?il alana bakan o, a??rba?l? eski evde bir hortlak türerse, hiç ku?kusuz bu benim hortla??m olacakt?r. Estella orada oturdu?u sürece benim dirliksiz ruhum gece gündüz dinlemeden o eve nas?l da dadanm??t? bilseniz! Kendim nerede olursam olay?m, ruhum her günün her dakikas?nda o evin içinde, rahat yüzü bilmeyerek dönüyor dola??yordu.

It's a gloomy thing, however, to talk about one's own past, with the day breaking.

Well! It was only their love for me, I know very well, and it is a long time ago. I must write it even if I rub it out again, because it gives me so much pleasure. They said there could be no east wind where Somebody was; they said that wherever Dame Durden went, there was sunshine and summer air.

You breathe in the glory of the new apple blossom and the girl heart rises up through all the world-mold that the years have gathered, and the lost thrill is back again.

But some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again.

Asymmetrical kisses, the sexiest yearning — one lip on nostalgia, the other, love yet earning

I love old poems, ladies who lived in past times. Life was maybe not easier, but people took time to idle sometime, and mostly they took time admiring a sunrise, the flowers opening their hearts, etc.

The post-office has a great charm at one period of our lives. When you have lived to my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth going through the rain for.

The past is never there when you try to go back. It exists, but only in memory. To pretend otherwise is to invite a mess.

The memories you have are just recordings of things past, not chains to bind you.

Memory is more than a dustbin of time, stuffed with yesterday's trash. Rather, memory is a glorious grab bag of the past from which one can at leisure pluck bittersweet experiences of times gone by and relive them.

If recollecting were forgetting Then I remember not. And if forgetting, recollecting, How near I had forgot!...

The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark.