Trevor Nunn Quotes

All my life, Following Care along the dusty road, Have I looked back on loveliness and sighed.

It's funny how close the past is, sometimes. Sometimes it seems as if you could almost reach out and touch it. Only who really wants to?

Memories, how they linger in the twilight and in the wee small hours sometimes just before dawn.

When you are alone and too tired even to turn on any of your devices, you let yourself linger in a past stacked among your pillows.

On the rare occasions when I spend a night in Oxford, the keeping of the hours by the clock towers in New College, and Merton, and the great booming of Tom tolling 101 times at 9 pm at Christ Church are inextricably interwoven with memories and regrets and lost joys. The sound almost sends me mad, so intense are the feelings it evokes.

During the first couple of years at school... I used to take my lunch and go down by the old fair grounds & sit alone by the side of the road & eat it... Those lovely, lonely lunches stick deep in my memory as unhappy times.

Are there not some places where we seem to breathe sadness? — why, we cannot tell. It is a chain of recollections — an idea which carries you back to other times, to other places — which, very likely, have no connection with the present time and place.

Doesn't one always think of the past, in a garden with men and women lying under the trees? Aren't they one's past, all that remains of it, those men and women, those ghosts lying under the trees ... one's happiness, one's reality?

Sundown, yellow moon, I replay the past I know every scene by heart, they all went by so fast

That is why I write - to try to turn sadness into longing, solitude into remembrance.

The memory of Cumshewa is of a great lonesomeness smothered in a blur of rain.

Things always seem fairer when we look back at them, and it is out of that inaccessible tower of the past that Longing leans and beckons.

And as we live our lives we discover - drawing toward us the thin threads attached to each - what has been lost. I closed my eyes and tried to bring to mind as many beautiful lost things as I could. Drawing them closer, holding on to them.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.

It's nine o'clock on a Saturday, the regular crowd shuffles in / There's an old man sitting next to me making love to his tonic and gin / He says, 'Son, can you play me a memory?/ I'm not really sure how it goes / But it's sad and it's sweet, and I knew it complete when I wore a younger man's clothes.'

I like to write about the way things used to be and paint pictures of my memories with beautiful words and melodies.

We all have our time machines. Some take us back, they're called memories. Some take us forward, they're called dreams.

Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

I have great memories.

One can't help but be a bit melancholy when you see how the world has changed, and I don't mean that nostalgically.

Nostalgia is something we think of as fuzzy. But it's pain. Pain concerning the past.

Memories are the key not to the past, but to the future.

It was a perfect night for a train. The occasional whistle told Louis of all the farewells he had ever known.

First of all, I'm not the kind of guy that likes to rehash the show and so forth and so on.

I'm a nostalgic guy.