Best 712 quotes in «nostalgia quotes» category

Because who can describe the look that triggers the memory of loved ones? Who can anticipate the frown, the smile, or the misplaced lock of hair that sends a swift, undeniable signal from the past? Who can ever estimate the power of association, which is always strongest in moments of love and in memories of death?

...because you are not trying simply to complete a set of books or toys or Weetabix cards, you are trying to complete yourself, to get back to the whole person you were before, as a child, before the obstructions and compromises of adulthood got in the way. And yet, all you are really doing is accumulating a pile of crap, souvenirs of the futility of the quest.

Before VCRs, people used to decorate the tops of their TVs with family photos.

Belittling nostalgia is a frightened man's parlor trick. Be grateful for any prize. Even a paper fortress, albeit briefly, provides shelter from the rain.

Bernostalgia selalu terasa menyedihkan, walau di dalam kesedihan itu ada keindahan yang misterius.

Between the Miles I have always counted the miles. Sometimes they came quick, Other times slow. The distance between things, The way I could know. Close could feel far, And far could feel near. The miles that passed too quickly, The ones I ran out of fear. They weren’t all the same, So I had been told, The unmarked trails, And the days I was bold. Some miles went down, Spiraling so low, When I was afraid to look forward, There was nowhere to go. The sunset came fast, And the day turned to night, But the trails could be endless, If I looked at them right. Everything I knew, All I was told, The conversations left behind, The people who grew old. When the miles stretched out before me, I wanted to sew them at the seam, Looking forward and then back, Holding everything in between.

Between the Mile I have always counted the miles. Sometimes they came quick, Other times slow. The distance between things, The way I could know. Close could feel far, And far could feel near. The miles that passed too quickly, The ones I ran out of fear. They weren’t all the same, So I had been told, The unmarked trails, And the days I was bold. Some miles went down, Spiraling so low, When I was afraid to look forward, There was nowhere to go. The sunset came fast, And the day turned to night, But the trails could be endless, If I looked at them right. Everything I knew, All I was told, The conversations left behind, The people who grew old. When the miles stretched out before me, I wanted to sew them at the seam, Looking forward and then back, Holding everything in between.

But do you know this idea of the imaginary homeland? Once you set out from shore on your little boat, once you embark, you'll never truly be at home again. What you've left behind exists only in memory, and your ideal place becomes some strange imaginary concoction of all you've left behind at every stop.

By and by all trace is gone, and what is forgotten is not only the footprints but the water too and what it is down there. The rest is weather. Not the breath of the disremembered and unaccounted for, but wind in the eaves, or spring ice thawing too quickly. Just weather. Certainly no clamor for a kiss.

...but now the love of Charles for Emma seemed to her a desertion from her tenderness, an encroachment upon what was hers, and she watched her son's happiness in sad silence, as a ruined man looks through the windows at people dining in his old house.

but this also is part of my charm. A maudlin nostalgia that comes on like terrible thoughts about death.

But in that moment I understood what they say about nostalgia, that no matter if you're thinking of something good or bad, it always leaves you a little emptier afterward.

But if nostalgia means the powerful recollection of strong emotions—and a regret that such feelings are no longer present in our lives—then I plead guilty . . . And if we're talking about strong feelings that will never come again, I suppose it's possible to be nostalgic about remembered pain as well as remembered pleasure. And that opens up the field, doesn't it?

Cabel felt the familiar nostalgic excitement of the endless possibilities encapsulated in a summers' night at Silver Beach. He smiled at himself as a boy and, more ruefully, at the man who now stood on the worn planks of the boardwalk. This night held no possibilities for him, though it was pleasant to remember a time when it did.

Carefully squeezing through the forest of adults that crowded the aisles, feeling like an intruder in a forbidden temple, he cautiously pushed deeper into the newsstand and found a new paperback by a writer whose novel about vampires he had read and reread until the cover was falling apart. There had been an all-black cover on the vampire book. This new one gleamed like polished chrome. It was called THE SHINING, but it cost $2.50 and he had spent all but $1.25 of his weekly allowance on some STAR WARS stuff at the mall.

Chodziłam po domu i mamrotałam coś do siebie. Kiedy człowiek jest starszy, takie zajęcie sprawia przyjemność. Rozprawiasz się, z kim chcesz, wygłaszasz repliki, które nie przyszły ci do głowy w danej chwili, uśmiechasz się na miłe wspomnienie, odtwarzasz rejestr zdarzeń, ilekroć masz na to ochotę, żeby zrozumieć, dlaczego sprawy potoczyły się tak, a nie inaczej. Całe twoje życie jest tam, z tobą, w tym samym pokoju. Twoje plany są raczej planami z przeszłości niż planami na przyszłość.

Christmas is not a reminder that the world is really quite a nice old place. It reminds us that the world is a shockingly bad old place, where wickedness flourishes unchecked, where children are murdered, where civilized countries make a lot of money by selling weapons to uncivilized ones so they can blow each other apart. Christmas is God lighting a candle, and you don't light a candle in a room that's already full of sunlight. You light a candle in a room that's so murky that the candle, when lit, reveals just how bad things really are. The light shines in the darkness, says St. John, and the darkness has not overcome it.

Conversations were struck up between strangers, regular diners as well as infrequent customers, as if united by a sense of gratitude at the sheer unlikeliness of it all - a high achievement of industrial civilisation that deserved to remain for everyone, but which has now gone the way of the airship and the ocean liner. Much of the nostalgia concerning railways is partial, even false; not this. [On British railway dining cars]

College was at the heart of his sentimental imagination.

Con un salto il commissario fu sulla verandina. E lo vide, un puntolino a ripa di mare che si dirigeva verso Vigàta. In mutande com’era, si lanciò all’inseguimento. François non correva, camminava deciso. Quando sentì alle sue spalle i passi di qualcuno appresso a lui, si fermò senza manco voltarsi. Montalbano, col fiato grosso, gli si accoccolò davanti, ma non gli spiò niente. Il picciliddro non piangeva, gli occhi erano fermi, taliavano al di là di Montalbano. «Je veux maman» disse. Vide arrivare Livia di corsa, s’era infilata una sua camicia, la fermò con un gesto, le fece capire di tornare a casa. Livia obbedi. Il commissario pigliò il picciliddro per mano e principiarono a caminare a lento a lento. Per un quarto d’ora non si dissero una parola. Arrivati a una barca tirata a sicco, Montalbano s’assittò sulla rena, François gli si mise allato e il commissario gli passò un braccio attorno alle spalle. «Iu persi a me matri ch’era macari cchiù nicu di tia» esordì. E iniziarono a parlare, il commissario in siciliano e François in arabo, capendosi perfettamente. Gli confidò cose che mai aveva detto a nessuno, manco a Livia. Il pianto sconsolato di certe notti, con la testa sotto il cuscino perché suo padre non lo sentisse; la disperazione mattutina quando sapeva che non c’era sua madre in cucina a preparargli la colazione o, qualche anno dopo, la merendina per la scuola. Ed è una mancanza che non viene mai più colmata, te la porti appresso fino in punto di morte. Il bambino gli spiò se lui aveva il potere di far tornare sua madre. No, rispose Montalbano, quel potere non l’aveva nessuno. Doveva rassegnarsi. Ma tu avevi tuo padre, osservò François che era intelligente davvero e non per vanto di Livia. Già, avevo mio padre. E allora, spiò il picciliddro, lui era inevitabilmente destinato ad andare a finire in uno di quei posti dove mettono i bambini che non hanno né padre né madre? «Questo no. Te lo prometto» disse il commissario. E gli porse la mano. François gliela strinse, taliandolo negli occhi.

Creosote made Mandy think of the thrill of rushing through a garden sprinkler as a kid, of playing washer toss in the backyard, of spending nights in the neighbors’ huge in-ground swimming pool when she was twelve, throwing glow sticks in the turquoise water during Canada Day block parties. She thought of Jud for a moment, how he’d loved doing all those things when he was a kid, but how, as he got older, it was all about popularity, sports, a life of illusion… and without warning, a totally different kind of memory filled her mind – the dull feeling of her head hitting the concrete walls near the wood shop at her old high school, the sounds of kids laughing, the sharp smell of sawdust, the buzzing of electric sanders nearby, the sound of Jud laughing while he beat her up… without realizing it, she’d started crying noiselessly.

Cuando se quiere de esa manera, es muy difícil vivir con un recuerdo que no se entiende. Como lo estoy viviendo yo ahora.

Contrary to popular belief, the past was not more eventful than the present. If seems so it is because when you look backward things that happened years apart are telescoped together, and because very few of your memories come to you genuinely virgin. It is largely because of the books, films and reminiscences that have come between that the war of 1914-18 is now supposed to have had some tremendous, epic quality that the present one lacks.

Costruire significa entrare nella storia! Ma non mi fermo a contemplare! Io non ho nostalgia del passato, ma del futuro!

Credeam că ce ai o dată, rămâne al tău până la moarte.

Dachux: It’s not like in the old days where you could kill a hogre or two, and nobody asked questions.

Danijar riprese il canto. L’inizio era sempre così timido, malsicuro, ma a poco a poco la voce prese forza, riempì la valle, andò a risvegliare l’eco nelle rocce lontane. Ciò che mi sorprendeva di più era la passione, l’ardore che permeava la melodia stessa. Non sapevo come chiamare tutto questo, e non lo so tuttora, o più esattamente non posso dire se quella fosse soltanto la voce o qualche cosa di ben più importante che usciva dal cuore stesso dell’uomo, qualche cosa capace di suscitare negli altri una simile emozione, capace di animare i più segreti pensieri. Se mi fosse possibile, in qualche modo, riprodurre la canzone di Danijar! In essa non c’erano quasi parole, essa apriva senza parole l’anima profonda dell’uomo. Né prima, né dopo, mai ho udito una canzone simile: non somigliava né alle canzoni kazake, né alle canzoni kirghise, ma c’era in essa qualcosa delle due e delle altre. La musica di Danijar portava in sé tutte le più belle melodie dei due popoli fratelli e le fondeva in una sola canzone impossibile a ripetersi. Era una canzone dei monti e delle steppe, che ora s’alzava sonora come i monti kirghisi e ora si stendeva senza barriere come la steppa kazaka.

Definition of nostalgia : remembering good times better than bad.

Da quando la nave era stata catturata dall’orbita terrestre, la vista del pianeta era divenuta per lei così irresistibile che difficilmente riusciva a privarsene. La Terra. Era la sua casa e non lo era. La conosceva bene e non la conosceva affatto. Vi era nata e cresciuta e allo stesso tempo non vi aveva mai messo piede prima. Le contraddizioni dovute a quella sua dualità avevano, però, l’inatteso effetto di farle godere soltanto del lato positivo di entrambe le condizioni.

Defrosting a frozen memory can get the present all wet.

Dejar la tierra. La tierra de uno. Los árboles y avenidas. El olor del cardamomo y los keftes de espinada. Los sonidos de la infancia que todavía se alojan debajo de la cama y en algunas esquinas; los rincones consentidos de casa. La alberca en la que aprendí a nadar. La reja que imaginó mi primer beso. Las calles de mi barrio, tan bien trazadas.

Din splendorile cafelei de odineoară, neschimbat rămăsese doar mangalul.

Despite your best efforts and intentions, there's a limited reservoir to fellowship before you begin to rely solely on the vapors of nostalgia. Eventually, you move on, latch on to another group of friends. Once in a while, though, you remember something, a remark or a gesture, and it takes you back. You think how close all of you were, the laughs and commiserations, the fondness and affection and support. You recall the parties, the trips, the dinners and late, late nights. Even the arguments and small betrayals have a revisionist charm in retrospect. You're astonished and enlivened by the memories. You wonder why and how it ever stopped. You have the urge to pick up the phone, fire off an email, suggesting reunion, resumption, and you start to act, but then don't, because it would be awkward talking after such a long lag, and, really, what would be the point? Your lives are different now. Whatever was there before is gone. And it saddens you, it makes you feel old and vanquished--not only over this group that disbanded, but also over all the others before and after it, the friends you had in grade and high school, in college, in your twenties and thirties, your kinship to them (never mind to all your old lovers) ephemeral and, quite possibly, illusory to begin with.

Divided - No tides of time or distance will wash away your step. It does not fleet as they do, those gladiators and their mighty spears or the beasts that howl into the dark for release. Our story carves deeper, pitilessly, infinitely. A wound that bleeds the ink that stained your palm and the tears of an impossible tomorrow.

Don't become a product of your memories, make a product out of your memories.

Do you know that high fever which invades us in our cold suffering, that aching for a land we do not know, that anguish of curiosity? There is a country which resembles you, where everything is beautiful, sumptuous, authentic, still, where fantasy has built and adorned a western China, where life is sweet to breathe, where happiness is wed to silence. That is where to live, that is where to die!" - Invitation to a Voyage

…Do you think there’s somewhere else, some other place to go after this one?” Mandy blurted out. “You mean when you die, where will you end up?” Alecto asked her. “…I wouldn’t know… back to whatever void there is, I suppose.” “I’ve thought about it… every living thing dies alone, it’ll be lonely after death,” Mandy sighed sadly. “That freaks me out, does it scare you?” “I don't want to be alone,” Alecto replied wearily. “We won’t be, though. We’ll be dead, so we’ll just be darkness, not much else, just memories, nostalgia and darkness.” “I don’t want to be any of that either though,” Mandy exclaimed, bursting into tears and crying, keeping her eyes to the floor, her voice shaky as she spoke to him. “When we die, we’ll still be nothing, the world will still be nothing, everything’ll just be nothing!” “You’re real though, at least that’s something,” Alecto pointed out, holding his hand out in front of her. Smiling miserably, Mandy took his hand in her own and sat there beside him quietly.

Do you know why they call me the Count? Because I love to count! Ah-hah-hah! - The Count Sesame Street

Elizabeth ran her finger along the windowsill, gathering dust. The view was almost exactly the same as from her own bedroom, only a few degrees shifted. She could still see the Rosens' place, with its red door and folding shutters, and the Martinez house, with its porch swing and the dog bowl. She'd heard once that what made you a real New Yorker was when you could remember back three laters -- the place on the corner that had been a bakery and then a barbershop before it was a cell-phone store, or the restaurant that had been Italian, then Mexican, then Cuban. The city was a palimpsest, a Mod Podged pileup or old signage and other people's failures. Newcomers saw only what was in front of them, but people who had been there long enough were always looking at two or three other places simultaneously. The IRT, Canal Jeans, the Limelight. So much of the city she'd fallen in love with was gone, but then again, that's how it worked. It was your job to remember. At least the bridges were still there. Some things were too heavy to take down.

(...) El arte necesita nostalgia. No se puede ser artista si no se ha perdido algo.

Elodie was a nostalgic person, but she hated the charge. The word was terribly maligned. People used it as a stand-in for sentimentality, when it wasn’t that at all. Sentimentality was mawkish and cloying, where nostalgia was acute and aching. It described yearning of the most profound kind: an awareness that time’s passage could not be stopped and there was no going back to reclaim a moment or a person or do things differently.

Each night I lie down in a graveyard of memories.

El exiliado mira hacia el pasado, lamiéndose las heridas; el inmigrante mira hacia el futuro, dispuesto a aprovechar las oportunidades a su alcance.

En griego, «regreso» se dice nostos. Algos significa “sufrimiento”. La nostalgia es, pues, el sufrimiento causado por el deseo incumplido de regresar. La mayoría de los europeos puede emplear para esta noción fundamental una palabra de origen griego (nostalgia) y, además, otras palabras con raíces en la lengua nacional: en español decimos “añoranza”; en portugués, saudade. En cada lengua estas palabras poseen un matiz semántico distinto. Con frecuencia tan sólo significan la tristeza causada por la imposibilidad de regresar a la propia tierra. Morriña del terruño. Morriña del hogar. En inglés sería homesickness, o en alemán Heimweh, o en holandés heimwee. Pero es una reducción espacial de esa gran noción. El islandés, una de las lenguas europeas más antiguas, distingue claramente dos términos: söknudur: nostalgia en su sentido general; y heimfra: morriña del terruño. Los checos, al lado de la palabra “nostalgia” tomada del griego, tienen para la misma noción su propio sustantivo: stesk, y su propio verbo; una de las frases de amor checas más conmovedoras es styska se mi po tobe: “te añoro; ya no puedo soportar el dolor de tu ausencia”. En español, “añoranza” proviene del verbo “añorar”, que proviene a su vez del catalán enyorar, derivado del verbo latino ignorare (ignorar, no saber de algo). A la luz de esta etimología, la nostalgia se nos revela como el dolor de la ignorancia. Estás lejos, y no sé qué es de ti. Mi país queda lejos, y no sé qué ocurre en él. Algunas lenguas tienen alguna dificultad con la añoranza: los franceses sólo pueden expresarla mediante la palabra de origen griego (nostalgie) y no tienen verbo; pueden decir: je m?ennuie de toi (equivalente a «te echo de menos» o “en falta”), pero esta expresión es endeble, fría, en todo caso demasiado leve para un sentimiento tan grave. Los alemanes emplean pocas veces la palabra “nostalgia” en su forma griega y prefieren decir Sehnsucht: deseo de lo que está ausente; pero Sehnsucht puede aludir tanto a lo que fue como a lo que nunca ha sido (una nueva aventura), por lo que no implica necesariamente la idea de un nostos; para incluir en la Sehnsucht la obsesión del regreso, habría que añadir un complemento: Senhsucht nach der Vergangenheit, nach der verlorenen Kindheit, o nach der ersten Liebe (deseo del pasado, de la infancia perdida o del primer amor).

...encontré una tacita de porcelana que se había caído de un poste. Recordé que cuando eramos chicos las rompíamos con la honda y eso me dio un poco de tristeza. Sin saber por qué me la guardé en el bolsillo y la fui acariciando con los dedos mientras pensaba en los tiempos del colegio, cuando creía que tenía una vida por delante.

Entre el deseo y la nostalgia, hay un punto que se llama el presente.

Eraritjaritjaka albutjika Nkinjaba iturala albutjika ... His heart is filled with longing to turn for home In the heat of the sun to return home ... 'Ulamba chant, Aboriginal Central Australia

È per smaltire un carico di nostalgia che sei andato tanto lontano!

Es raro que yo hable de cosas que echo de menos, porque sin duda lo que más echo de menos es el futuro, siempre.

Every day it’s something worse being predicted. Mearth says that sooner or later copyright on books will be all in the past because they’ll all be available electronically. She says that electric cars will replace gasoline-powered cars. She says that something called drones will be used to watch the entire country, she talks a lot about something called nanotechnology, and 3-dimensional printing and cellular phones being implanted into peoples’ minds and all available careers being replaced by robots and human cloning and overpopulation and film becoming obsolete, cellular phones making regular telephones obsolete and LED lighting replacing everything and eventually she says that the planet will collapse and become an apathetic wreck,” Alecto replied rapidly, his run-on sentence sounding sinister and dangerous. “Mearth says that eventually people will be able to see inside the minds of everyone.