The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark
I remember when we kissed. I still feel it on my lips. The time you danced with me with no music playing. I remember the simple things. I remember till I cry. But the one thing I wish I'd forget, the memory I wanna forget is goodbye.
No sorrow is deeper than the remembrance of happiness when in misery.
But I’ve been turning over in my mind the question of nostalgia, and whether I suffer from it. I certainly don’t get soggy at the memory of some childhood knickknack; nor do I want to deceive myself sentimentally about something that wasn’t even true at the time—love of the old school, and so on. 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.
Just sitting back trying to recapture a little of the glory of... Well, the time slips away and leaves you with nothing, mister, but boring stories of Glory days - yeah, they'll pass you by, Glory days - in the wink of a young girl's eye.
Soon I am seeing the blue-and-yellow flags that line the campus streets, and it makes me feel happy and sad at the same time to be back at La Salle--almost like looking at old pictures of people who have either died or with whom you have lost contact.
How that name comes up. Mixing memory and desire
For years afterwards when Amory thought of Eleanor he seemed still to hear the wind sobbing around him and sending little chills into the places beside his heart. The night when they rode up the slope and watched the cold moon float through the clouds, he lost a further part of him that nothing could restore; and when he lost it he lost also the power of regretting it.
He paused again as a tear of longing rolled from cheek to lip with the sweet-salty taste of an old memory.
You know what nostalgia is, don't you? It's basically a matter of recalling the fun without reliving the pain.
I might not remember how the sky looked on any given day. I do remember, though, what it was like to be a boy beneath a sky.
Every mile was redolent of associations, which she would not have missed for the world, but each of which made her cry upon 'the days that are no more' with ineffable longing.
To get nostalgic about other people's music, or even about your own, makes a terrible statement about the condition of your life and your prospects for the future.
Those yesterdreams were just a cruel and foolish game we used to play, yester-me, yester-you, yesterday.
Strange how when you're young you have no memories...Then one day you wake up and BOOM, memories overpower all else in your life, forever making the present moment seem sad and unable to compete with a glorious past that now has a life of its own.
