The past always looks better than it was. It’s only pleasant because it isn’t here.
We look before and after, And pine for what is not; Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
I love that moment of, 'Remember when?' I love to waft.
I ordered a coffee and a little something to eat and savored the warmth and dryness. Somewhere in the background Nat King Cole sang a perky tune. I watched the rain beat down on the road outside and told myself that one day this would be twenty years ago.
A memory is a beautiful thing, it's almost a desire that you miss.
If you love a flower that lives on a star, it is sweet to look at the sky at night. All the stars are a-bloom with flowers.
Bring me the sunset in a cup.
The things about my childhood that I really loved the most, writing about those things was hard because I knew they would never happen again.
Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears, Fever'd the progress of these years, Yet now, days, weeks, and months but seem The recollection of a dream.
It was mint and memories and the past and the future and she felt as if she’d done this before and already she longed to do it again.
I don't consider devotion to the past a form of snobbery. Just one of the more disastrous forms of unrequited love.
Give me a window and I'll stare out it.
We are homesick most for the places we have never known.
Sharp nostalgia, infinite and terrible, for what I already possess.
But still my fancy wanders free Through that which might have been.
There is a German word, Sehnsucht, which has no English equivalent; it means 'the longing for something'. It has Romantic and mystical connotations; C.S. Lewis defined it as the 'inconsolable longing' in the human heart for 'we know not what'. It seems rather German to be able to specify the unspecifiable. The longing for something - or, in our case, for someone.
Nostalgia paints a smile on the stony face of the past.
Out my window.. I see everything I dream about and wished I had
We are in the realm not of logic but of wistfulness, and I must maintain that wistfulness is a respectable, serious condition. How, otherwise, to account for much of one's life?
When I see daughters with their fathers I wonder what that would be like, although not in a way that immobilises me.
I hate being so nostalgic about the Sixties.
It was funny, she thought, but her smile turned wistful because she had nobody to tell.
Some days in late August at home are like this, the air thin and eager like this, with something in it sad and nostalgic and familiar.
I miss the game - I miss it a lot.
I think it's impossible not to see something you wanted happen to someone else and maybe wish it for yourself.
