#nostalgia

There is no greater sorrow Than to recall a happy time When miserable. ↗

— Dante Alighieri

#italian-medieval-poetry #nostalgia #À-la-recherche-du-temps-perdu #sorrow

Philosophy is really nostalgia, the desire to be at home. ↗

— Novalis

#nostalgia #philosophy #nostalgia

Nostalgia is the only friend that stays with you forever. ↗

— Damien Echols

#memories #nostalgia #death

Nostalgia isn't what it used to be. ↗

— Peter De Vries

#used

Every act of rebellion expresses a nostalgia for innocence and an appeal to the essence of being. ↗

— Albert Camus

#appeal #being #essence #every #expresses

This is what I want. I want people to take care of me. I want them to force comfort upon me. I want the soft-pillow feeling that I associate with memories of being ill when I was younger, soft pillows and fresh linens and satin-edged blankets and hot chocolate. It's not so much the comfort itself as knowing there's someone who wants to take care of you. ↗

— Franny Billingsley

#comfort #family #love #nostalgia #wistful

As I've gotten older I've occasionally found myself nostalgic for earlier periods of solitude, though I realize that's also likely a false nostalgia, as I know there was nothing I wanted more during those periods than to not be alone, whatever that means. ↗

— Chris Ware

#also #during #earlier #false #found

It isn't necessary to imagine the world ending in fire or ice. There are two other possibilities: one is paperwork, and the other is nostalgia. ↗

— Frank Zappa

#fire #ice #imagine #necessary #nostalgia

I'm not the sort to wallow in nostalgia about the good old days. ↗

— Kabir Bedi

#days #good #good old days #i #nostalgia

The campus, an academy of trees, under which some hand, the wind's I guess, had scattered the pale light of thousands of spring beauties, petals stained with pink veins; secret, blooming for themselves. We sat among them. Your long fingers, thin body, and long bones of improbable genius; some scattered gene as Kafka must have had. Your deep voice, this passing dust of miracles. That simple that was myself, half conscious, as though each moment was a page where words appeared; the bent hammer of the type struck against the moving ribbon. The light air, the restless leaves; the ripple of time warped by our longing. There, as if we were painted by some unknown impressionist. ↗

— Ruth Stone

#nostalgia #poetry #beauty