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Nostalgia Quotes

Browse 1745 quotes about Nostalgia.

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Nostalgia Quotes

“The danger of restorative nostalgia lies in its belief that the mutilated 'wholeness' of the body politic can be repaired. But the reflective nostalgic understands deep down that loss is irrecoverable: Time wounds all wholes. To exist in Time is to suffer through an endless exile, a successive severing from those precious few moments of feeling at home in the world. In pop terms, Morrissey is the supreme poet of reflective nostalgia.”

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Book:Retromania: Pop Culture's Addiction to Its Own Past
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“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.”

NostalgiaTerraSpazioMarte
Book:Deserto rosso - Ritorno a casa
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“Stafford’s Law of Irreversible Entropy states: A system that achieved a perfect champagne alignment in its own era cannot be shoehorned back in once the environment has evolved or degenerated beyond it. This is the Staffordian Duality; it is immaterial whether global prospects improved or deteriorated; it only matters that the metric mirror of the past no longer reflects the current modern sinkhole. The most overcrowded vessel is the one that sails on the golden sea of memories.”

PhilosophyTimeMemoriesNostalgiaInflationEntropyLiving In The PastMonetary PolicyEconomics Impermanence
Author:Stewart Stafford
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“Memory is a patient sculptor. It chisels away the rough edges and refines the scenes you carry. A childhood street that once felt endless becomes shorter in recollection, but more idyllic. ... The mind softens the harshness and highlights the tenderness. It leaves you with impressions more than exact details: the smell of jasmine in the evening, the sound of rain on an old roof, the feeling of safety in a friend’s kitchen.”

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Author:Ajmal, from the book "Borders of the Inner World"
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“Memories are funny things,” Mrs. Darby pressed on. “They are fickle creatures, constantly changing. Every time we look back on a memory, it has changed, it is never the same as how it was when we made the memory. How could it be? Because every time we look back, we too have changed. We have collected new experiences, new opinions, new pains. You aren’t looking back on them with the same eyes.” “Nostalgia is not like it used to be,” Danny quipped, and was pleased with himself that he drew a laugh out of her.”

LifeHumorTimeMemoriesNostalgia
Book:Dysfunction
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“The Reaping by Stewart Stafford Paint a nostalgic landscape today, A harvest gifted once in this way, Stranger's yields come to pass, Only that season's memory lasts. A fallow field to revisit in time, Golden reaping of a private mind, As gleaners, newcomers gather, Reminiscence thickens to slather. As the body grows old like the land, With crop circles on backs of hands, In solstice, your seed does replenish, Past where scars of life can blemish. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

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Author:Stewart Stafford
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“C10 (sau colindătorii regelui - din studentie) pe scara laterală seara ne adunăm mulți treptele reci de ciment ne primesc ca pe colindătorii regelui avem vin fiert și uscături chitara portocalie se deformează lungă la lumânări mai tragem din țigară, ronțăim sticks-uri și biscuiți sărați fericirea gâdilă arterele cu unghii birmaneze un etaj mai jos, la ușa "Mr. Blues- Don't Disturb" putregaiul gustos al jazzului mângâie degetele de la picioare păcătuim cu gândul atârnat de balustradă mai târziu sârbii vin să cânte cu noi blonzi ca zeii de țară bombardată zgâriem varul cu unghiile, nu știm ce să le spunem ne-aduc napolitane cu fructe și ciocolată în staniol verde a doua seară iar ne adunăm pe scara laterală cu vin fiert și uscături tot noi... bătrânii rockeri grei în coada chitării la miezonoptică.”

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Book:Orbul de la Cină
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“I am coloured by my father’s Far and painted image. In a thousand lines of broken questions, I have tried to find Some thread, some bind That would peep me through the locked Doors of his life and why I am as I stand. He drank gin with a sense of humour, He was thin and killed by a tumour. In twenty words, his full-fleshed life Is boned for approval, In twenty words, I am lured away And buried in the obscurities Of twenty thousand lives, not so different. Twenty stories told by twenty people Nurture confused and distracted poetry. I am not certain that he was a man And was indeed my father, I am not sure, And yet, I am coloured by my father’s Far and painted image.”

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Author:Gordon Roddick
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“they are a little more solid even in the exquisite nakedness of their existence and they glory in their reality and read music and dance poetry on the sidewalks and in the lavatories of bombed out buildings. we take their words and cup them in our hands and we take their lips and crush them to ourselves and dream the dreams and think of sands and faraway places and wish for death and pray they see IT soon.”

LoveInspirationInspirational QuotesPoetryLife QuotesDreamsNostalgiaMeaningPhilosophy Of LifeHappiness Quotes
Book:Industrial Madness
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“Only the life within hm was real, the anguished beating of his heart, the nostalgic sting of longing, the joys and fears of his dreams. To them he belonged; to them he abandoned himself. Suddenly, in the middle of a page or a lesson, surrounded by his classmates, he'd sink into himself and forget everything, listening only to the rivers and voices inside himself which drew him away, into deep wells filled with dark melodies, into colorful abysses full of fairy-tale deeds, and all the sounds were like his mother's voice, and the thousands of eyes all were his mother's eyes.”

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Author:Herman Hesse
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“When was it that first I heard of the grass harp? Long before the autumn we lived in the China tree; an earlier autumn, then; and of course it was Dolly who told me, no one else would have known to call it that, a grass harp. . . If on leaving town you take the church road you soon will pass a glaring hill of bonewhite slabs and brown burnt flowers: this is the Baptist cemetery. . . below the hill grows a field of high Indian grass that changes color with the seasons: go to see it in the fall, late September, when it has gone red as sunset, when scarlet shadows light firelight breeze over it and the autumn winds strum on its dry leaves sighing human music, a harp of voices. . . It must have been on one of those September days when we were there in the woods gathering roots that Dolly said: Do you hear? that is the grass harp, always telling a story -- it knows the stories of all the people on the hill, of all the people who ever lived, and when we are dead it will tell ours, too.”

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Book:The Grass Harp, Including A Tree of Night and Other Stories
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