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21b544c
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And the farther I walked away, the more upset I got, at the loss of one of the few stable and unchanging docking-points in the world that I had taken for granted: familiar faces, glad greetings: hey manito! For I had thought that this last touchstone of the past, at least, would be where I'd left it.
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grief
home
loss
nostalgia
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Donna Tartt |
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35a2e9e
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"Mandy, I hardly think this was appropriate, not after... you know... after the funeral we haven't had the money for any of your weird little games and I was hoping you'd be more mature now that Jud's gone," her father had disappointedly added. "How much'd that cake cost you?" "It's paid for," Mandy had argued, but her voice had sounded tiny in the harbour wind. "I used the cash from my summer job at Frenchy's last year and I... it was my birthday, dad!" "You can't even be normal about this one thing, can you?" her father had complained. Mandy hadn't cried, she'd only stared back knowingly, her voice shaky. "...I'm normal."
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argument
birthday
brother
cake
death-of-a-sibling
depression
father
funeral
grief
loss
memory
money
mourning
normal
nostalgia
parent
sibling
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Rebecca McNutt |
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d39ed44
|
"Alecto, have you noticed how downhill this little island is becoming?" Mandy questioned sadly. "All these organic food stores and yoga studios and cellular phone towers... Cape Breton was one of the only places left where it still had that nostalgic small town atmosphere but now... I've only been away for a year, how could things have changed so quickly? I mean, how can the world accept it?" "C'est la vie," said Alecto, looking extremely tired as he stared out the window at the late November maple keys fluttering down from vibrantly red trees lining the streets on either side of the windshield."
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cape-breton
car
cell-phone
change
digital
drive
environmental
life
modernity
nostalgia
nova-scotia
organic
street
technology
tower
windshield
yoga
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Rebecca McNutt |
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61abac3
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I talked yesterday about caring, I care about these moldy old riding gloves. I smile at them flying through the breeze beside me because they have been there for so many years and are so old and so tired and so rotten there is something kind of humorous about them. They have become filled with oil and sweat and dirt and spattered bugs and now when I set them down flat on a table, even when they are not cold, they won't stay flat. They've got a memory of their own. They cost only three dollars and have been restitched so many times it is getting impossible to repair them, yet I take a lot of time and pains to do it anyway because I can't imagine any new pair taking their place. That is impractical, but practicality isn't the whole thing with gloves or with anything else.
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motorcycles
nostalgia
riding
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Robert M. Pirsig |
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2af4090
|
Our misconception in viewing the past lies in assuming that doubt and fear, permit, protests, violence and hate were not equally present.
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nostalgia
perspective
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Barbara W. Tuchman |
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95c1cd6
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The men and women of the Golden Age, Hesiod wrote, lived in an eternal spring, for hundreds of years, always youthful, fed on acorns from a great oak, on wild fruits, on honey. In the Silver Age, which is less written about, the people lived for 100 years as children, without growing up, and then quite suddenly aged and died. The Fabians and the social scientists, writers and teachers saw, in a way earlier generations had not, that children were people, with identities and desires and intelligences. They saw that they were neither dolls, nor toys, nor miniature adults. They saw, many of them, that children needed freedom, needed not only to learn, and be good, but to play and be wild. But they saw this, so many of them, out of a desire of their own for a perpetual childhood, a Silver Age.
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childhood
freud
golden-age
hesiod
infantile
nostalgia
prehistory
silver-age
victorians
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A.S. Byatt |