The phrase appeared on a wall in New York and nobody knows when. It was graffiti long before such graffiti were considered art. It was even before looking at them like scribbles littering walls. Long before Banksy, the message existed. Probably because “the author had the need to write on the wall that it was no longer what it had been. Maybe he was glad he got rid of her. Perhaps sad to find nothing around him that would arouse her & rdquor ;. The sentence shocked Simone Signoret. She wrote it down and took it to Paris to discuss it with Yves Montand, her husband. And it remained floating in the environment for its free interpretation until he decided to make it the title of his memoirs: ‘Nostalgia is not what it used to be’ (Éditions du Seuil, 1976). And history was made.
Let’s face it, nostalgia is a balm. OR as García Márquez would write, the feeling that erases bad memories and magnifies good ones. The look back, clean and conscious, that helps to fight against oblivion without falling into melancholy. That yes, a potential risk. And if there is a time of the year that invites that contrasting lack or complementary to the present, it is now. Christmas. Time of traditions that, still updated, inevitably recall childhood.
“It simply came to our notice then the rooster mass in a mountain church and the way back, in the dark, warm with a scarf around his neck and his hands in his coat pockets. Rafel Nadal Farreras (Girona, October 2, 1954) He openly admits to feeling nostalgic for his past. Even so, he recognizes himself happier now than when he described his childhood in ‘Quan érem feliços’ because he lives with more intensity than when everything was still possible.
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That Josep Pla 2012 award was the start of your introspection towards what he had intimately repudiated, as befitted all organic protesters at the end of the Franco regime. Especially if, coming from a conservative family, he was looking for the beach under the cobblestones of the city. It was not the first time nor would it be the last that I rummaged in memory, only that this time it was her own and without dissimulation. Then came ‘Quan en deiem xampany’, a family saga between Catalonia and French Champagne. The ‘When words are erased’ trilogy closes now (Column). Undoubtedly his most sincere and sentimental book, in which the winks to humor with his grandchildren are as consistent as the watchful eye that moves and moves by showing the despair of the son who does not understand first and then resigns himself to the loss of the father believed immortal while he observes the mother, once vital and instructive, sitting motionless and silent in front of a window, a fleeing gaze behind the glass, never realizing any image and never knowing what she thinks because she never utters a word or sound. And that was how “one day, the boira that engulfed my mother’s memory began to erase my things, “My memories, the ones she nurtured, the ones she had only lived and kept for me.”
Communication that was probably starting when any mother, watching her newborn in the cradle, he sang to himself, “Make me a king, make me my son, you are an angel, God has sent me.” Sounds Dyango, nostalgic, background.
Reference-www.elperiodico.com