Nostalgia

Thursday, 29 December 2011

Memory and History



Mr Gatt (Standing) on far right at Le Salon
Anchoring The Gramophone Years' underlying themes of belonging and nostalgia, Le Salon was extremely fortunate to have Mr Charles Gatt, a charming and charismatic raconteur, on board. Mr Gatt peppered the account of his voyage by ship, leaving Maltese shores in 1958, to emigrate to to  Canada, with anecdotes of hardships endured, and idiosyncrasies experienced against a colonial backdrop whilst forging and assimilating  identities.  One of the aims of Le Salon is to provide a platform for oral history. An extract from a critique (by Warren Bugeja) on reading  Nathan Wachtel's tract on Memory and History , served as an introduction to Mr Charles Gatt's interlude.


 Memory and History
In the absence of a history of the common people, oral history helps fill the gaps in collective memory by giving a voice to the invisible players in history. By democratizing ‘official memory’ long guarded by  scholarly historians, relying primarily on written documentation, oral history provides the soap box on which women, minority groups, the illiterate and the ordinary man in the street can reconstruct a ‘forgotten ‘past through their life stories.
History, commissioned and manipulated by ownership of the dominant mass media of each epoch, has always been told from the top down. From the viewpoint of the conqueror, rarely the conquered, the rich, the famous or infamous.  ‘Inequality persists beyond death in the inequality of the preservation of recollections’ ( Nathan Wachtel, quoting Phillipe Joutard). One of the aims of Oral History, Wachtel claims, is to ‘establish a counter-history. This is not to present Oral history, however, as a substitute for written history but as another tool in the historian’s methodological toolbox, juxtaposing oral narratives with other sources of data such as related artifacts, written documentation and other interviews.
Oral history as the systematic collection of living people’s testimony about their own experiences, depends, for its life blood upon human memory and the spoken word.  One of the main criticisms of Oral History is the very nature of the ‘retrospective and fluid character’ of memory that makes it an ‘unwieldy tool ‘from the perspective of scientific criteria. There is no ‘pure memory, only recollection’, Wachtel states. But what people leave out, (forget or not consider important) from their stories may be as tellingly interesting as what they include or more interestingly choose to remember. Marcel Proust in his ‘Remembrance of Things Past’ asks the question what is more real, more vivid? The actual event or the memory of it brought to life by the recollection of it? In his 1978 work ‘The Voice of the Past’ P. Thomson demonstrates that the same event experienced by several persons is then coloured by the later ‘experiences and destinies’ of the same witnesses who recollect it very differently years later from their initial reminiscences.
Yet if oral narratives are a subjective reading of history then history can be seen to be a gestalt or a collective recollection of individual presents seen from the perspective of the past. The bias towards subjectivity is seen in a positive light. Chosen recollections become tradition. The work of the memory in what it recollects becomes a representation (important in its own right) not a reflection of the past. And Wachtel asks ‘since every memory has a history, is it not possible to construct a history of the memory?’
The human tendency to impose a narrative structure on events that may not be closely connected, the serving motives of the storyteller, the power relationships between interviewer and interviewee that affect what and how events are reported, represent inconsistencies in the oral method. Linguistically people do not speak in complete sentences. They repeat themselves and leave things out. There is a gap between the spoken word and the written word trying to capture it, as there is a gap between thoughts and speech, thoughts being much faster and speech clumsy in comparison.  The task of the transcriber to put spoken words onto paper with a semblance of written coherence without changing the narrator’s meaning is no mean feat.
Questions of accuracy are not unique to oral history.  Written sources can carry personal or social biases. They occur within a social context. An approximation of accuracy of a collective representation of  an event depends on the cross section of people interviewed in connection with the particular event being ‘remembered’ , especially if as Maurice Halbwachs argues in Durkheimian vein that ‘one only ever remembers as a member of a social group.’ ‘Recollections’ he says ‘exist and are only localized in the past by linking up with the memory of others’. Although in Oral history, the human life span puts boundaries on the subject; the researcher can only go back one lifetime; for Halbwachs there is a living link between generations. Memory is a product of its time and is influenced by the formative psychological and social ‘atmospheres’ of the epoch peculiar and appertaining to each successive generation. Memory thus for Halbwachs is anchored and limited by a generation in space and time.
Roger Bastide took Halbwach’s theories of collective spatial memory one step further  in his studies  illustrating how the cohesion and transnational location of an African ethnic identity owes much to the spatial dimension of worship, not just recreated in artifacts and sites  but also ‘rehabilitated’ within the body, expressed for example, in ritual dance. Could the physical maneuvers within the Gospel tradition be a christianising of voodoo memory muscle motor mechanisms? Bastide argued that it was the structure of the group as opposed to the group in of itself that provides the framework for social memory. Therefore a destructuralization  or obliterated by a syncretism or merging (taking on) of memories from a new culture or generation to which they adapt to or confront to.
With the rise of nationalism official historians were entrusted with documenting and elaborating a history legitimizing and eulogizing the nation state. History became part of a national mythology accompanied by flags, anthems, symbols, public monuments and elaborate civic rituals, providing a common national consciousness that invalidated individual consciousness and memory that did not support or conform to the nationalistic ideology. In the wake of the Annales school and as a reaction to nationalistic narrative discourses, historical writing began to divert from a purely, linear, temporal  unfolding of cause and effect to a pluralistic, temporality, panorama of problem history entertaining working class, feminist, group and regional ‘counter perspectives.
If memory is a component of individual and group identity it also then can be false, constructed as a force of resistance or insulation against a hostile environment. This is revealed by the research of Freddy Raphael on the sympathetic memory Alsatian Jews had of their former relationship with the inhabitants of a village they had since departed from. These same villagers held very contradictory recollections (indeed they stereotypically referred to the Jews as ‘smelly’) to those nursed by the Alsatian Jews. The latter were when faced with these opposing views, were forced to reassess their own ‘official memories’. Oral history creates for a rich tapestry of memory, memories that co-exist, that dissent from each other, ‘memories that are the object of struggles, strategies and power relations’ official or secret’. There is individual memory that contributes to group memory by establishing its own spokesmen as the memory bearers. These constitute ‘histories of the memory’.
In a 21st century world where humans rather than write letters, travel to see each other, make telephone calls that ‘dissolve into thin air’ or write e-mails that are promptly deleted, the scarcity of written records is safeguarding the future of oral history, so much so that academia, once the stamping ground of the official historian, now offers University degrees in the subject.

'Dust' by Celeste Ololquiaga - Contributed by Susan Waitt

'Pensee' by Susan Waitt, presented to Le Salon at its inauguration
Dust is what connects the dreams of yesteryear with the touch of nowadays. It is the aftermath of the collapse of illusions, a powdery cloud that rises abruptly and then begins falling on things, gently covering their bright, polished surfaces. Dust is like a soft carpet of snow that gradually coats the city, quieting its noise until we feel like we are inside a snow globe, the urban exterior transmuted into a magical interior where all time is suspended and space contained. Dust makes the outside inside by calling attention to the surface of things, a surface formerly deemed untouchable or simply ignored as a conduit to what was considered real: that essence which supposedly lies inside people and things, waiting to be discovered. Dust turns things inside out by exposing their bodies as more than mere shells or carriers, for only after dust settles on an object do we begin to long for its lost splendor, realizing how much of this forgotten object's beauty lay in the more external, concrete aspect of its existence, rather than in its hidden, attributed meaning.
Dust brings a little of the world into the enclosed quarters of objects. Belonging to the outside, the exterior, the street, dust constantly creeps into the sacred arena of private spaces as a reminder that there are no impermeable boundaries between life and death. It is a transparent veil that seduces with the promise of what lies behind it, which is never as good as the titillating offer. Dust makes palpable the elusive passing of time, the infinite pulverized particles that constitute its volatile matter catching their prey in a surprise embrace whose clingy hands, like an invisible net, leave no other mark than a delicate sheen of faint glitter. As it sticks to our fingertips, dust propels a vague state of retrospection, carrying us on its supple wings. A messenger of death, dust is the signature of lost time.
 From: 
'The Artificial Kingdom: A Treasury Of The Kitsch Experience'. Rather than engaging the tired stances that see kitsch as either bad taste or a bad copy of «true art», this book presents it as a cultural sensibility of loss, tracing its origins as a massive phenomenon to the nineteenth century. Presenting kitsch as the ambivalent «cristallization» of the lost experience of pre-industrial life, TAK explores this sensibility through the objects and narratives that it produced, in particular those related to the popular underwater imagery of the time: aquariums, paperweights, the myth of Atlantis and Jules Verne’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.

Monday, 26 December 2011

'To The Moon' - Contributed by Sophie O'Halloran

Sophie in middle at Le Salon

To the Moon

By Perce Bysshe Shelley
I
Art thou pale for weariness
      Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
      Among the stars that have a different birth, —
            And ever changing, like a joyless eye
            That finds no object worth its constancy?

II
Thou chosen sister of the Spirit,
      That gazes on thee till in thee it pities ...

'If' - Mary Attard's Contribution Dec '11



IF read by Mary Attard
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream---and not make dreams your master;
If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!


Rudyard Kipling
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Vision and Prayer

Original art work by Catrina Attard, accompanying text of the poem she read out by Dylon Thomas 'Vision and Prayer' 1939.


Who are you
Who is born
In the next room?
So loud to my own?
That I can hear the womb
Opening and the dark run
Over the ghost and
The dropped son
Behind the wall thin
As a wrens bone?
In teh birth bloody
Room unknown
To the burn and
Turn of Time
And the heart print of man
Bows no baptism
But dark alone
Blessing on the Wild Child.

Katrina next to Gramophone at Le Salon

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Wednesday, 21 December 2011

Duende by Lizzie Eldridge

Le Salon was really chuffed to have Lizzie read out an excerpt from her debut novel Duende which was published on Kindle on Monday the 19th December 2011


 Duende' is a consummate attempt in itself to capture the 'duende', the mechanics of constructing authentic art within the spirit of intellectual enquiry as to what life really means, and against the shadow of cataclysmic destruction.The first three chapters of Duende may be read for free on Amazon.Com. Support lizzie by downloading this book. Here's a bref glimpse


Chapter 1
Ignacio Ramirez Rivera quickly became Nayo thanks to his older sister who deliberately simplified his name in response to his arrival in her world. Although this diminutive form was unusual, soon Nayo’s parents were fondly referring to their baby in this way, pleased a bond had already developed between their two young children. Angelita, the little girl responsible for her brother’s title, herself had a name with a lot to live up to.
‘What did we do to produce you?’ her father laughed, ruffling her hair. His own impish streak had been tamed through several years of married life but Carlos had never fully shrugged off his Carlito. While he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, he sensed something in his daughter was keeping his mischievous spirit alive.
Nayo had no idea what he was letting himself in for when he decided to make an appearance within the living realm. Even with his parents to protect him, Angelita found ways and means to bypass their powers. Once, she insisted on the honour of feeding him as being the older sister gave her certain privileges. Manuela smiled proudly as she passed her daughter the warm bottle. Angelita received it solemnly, as if it were a chalice or some other sacred object, and walked piously towards the adjacent room. Flinging off her ceremonial garb, she unscrewed the top and forced herself to cry, watching in amazement as the tears splashed freely into the milk. She had no idea what tears tasted like but now she wanted to find out. Carefully twisting the top back on, she sat down and called her mother to bring the baby to her. She was scared of picking him up in case she dropped him.
Manuela wiped her hands free of dishwater and reassuringly lifted Nayo from his cot. His little head was too sweet not to kiss and she lowered him down lovingly on to Angelita’s lap.
Angelita received him in an equally adoring manner, making sure he was comfortably nestled in her arms before tempting him with the teat that pretended to be his mother’s nipple. She watched as his searching lips quickly found their place round the soft rubber imitation and stroked his forehead as he lapped hungrily at the milk. He ate happily for a while but then his face began to pucker and distort. A complete lack of understanding replacedhis previous contentment. A frown appeared across his forehead as his lips still searched for nourishment. Angelita wondered why he kept returning to the source of his pain but again and again his mouth hunted for the teat, expecting foolishly that normality would return. As he writhed and winced beneath her gaze, Angelita realized she had a lot to teach himand came to the conclusion that it was her responsibility to wise Nayo up to the ways of the world.
At the sound of cries, Manuela came running through and saw Angelita trying her best to console her brother, rocking him gently back and forth.
‘It’s probably wind, sweetheart,’ she reassured her daughter. ‘Just a touch of wind, that’s all. Here. Let me take him.’
Wide-eyed, Angelita let her mother make things right, slipping away timidly to put her doll’s house in order. The bedroom needed re-arranging and the kitchen hadn’t been cleaned in a long time. These porcelain people couldn’t be relied on to do anything properly. Turn your back on them for one minute and chaos ensues. While shifting miniature furniture, Angelita sighed, knowing her tears would never have harmed Nayo. They sharedthe self-same flesh and blood after all.
When he started trying to walk, Angelita providedenthusiastic encouragement. He used various objects to lever himself off the groundthenAngelita would take one of his hands. She’d tell him how well he was doing as Nayo teetered unsteadily by her side. Convinced her little brother was capable of more, she’d release her grip and gasp, slightly unnerved, as he fell with a thud on his bottom.
It was Carlos who came hurrying through at the sound of his son’s howls. Manuela was relaxing in a much needed bath. He lifted the boy up and hugged him close.
‘Hush, Nayo,’ he whispered gently. ‘Your sister’s still too young to know what to do in a crisis.’
            As Nayo’s steps becamesurer, Angelita loved him even more. She clappedas he brought each foot forward with increasing confidence. Nayo’s face filled up with smiles and he gurgled excitedly. He was proud of himself but most of his courage came from this creature he’d known since his first day on earth, this thing that was like him but not, a mirror image enlarged and capable of feats which seemed unimaginable. Here she was, doting attention on him, really and truly believing in him.
            When she began to run at a speed that seemed impossible, he found the strength and trust to follow her. If she could do it, so could he.
            He hit the floor with such impact that blood began to seep immediately from his forehead, a strange, sticky liquid entirely new to him. All he could do was lie there, reddening the tiles as Manuela hurried through and screamed like she’d never screamed before.
            It wasn’t merely the sight of her only son wounded and immobile but the fact that no tears accompanied his pain. When she picked him up, his eyes looked quizzical with no indication of distress and this alarmed her more than anything else.
            ‘Carlos!’ she shouted. ‘Carlos! Get the doctor! Carlos, please!’
            Carlos was engrossed in Calderon’s La vida es sueno, a play he’d fallen in love with while still at school. No matter how many times he read it, he always found something different but came away never fully understanding the real nature of the work. More questions appeared and sometimes, but only sometimes, new solutions. Although the lines were famous and much analysed, he still grappled with their profundity, never satisfied with simple explanations:
¿Qué es la vida? Un frenesí.
¿Qué es la vida? Una ilusión,
una sombra, una ficción,
y el mayor bien es pequeño:
que toda la vida es sueño,
y los sueños, sueños son.
            If life really is a dream and dreams are nothing but dreams then is illusion inescapably the basis of reality and if so, is that necessarily a bad thing? Are reality and illusion two sides of the same coin andprecise labels become irrelevant? Is it about language or perception? About experience or our understanding of this? If reality ceases to exist then is our fictional existence any less true or tangible on account of this?
            ‘Carlos!’ his wife wailed from downstairs.
            ‘Qué es la vida?’ pondered Carlos when suddenly his wife’s cries shook him abruptly back into the world of the here and now. He ran downstairs, almost losing his balance as he did so.
            Blood on his son’s head, on his wife’s face and dress,initially made him panic but he disguised this by swiftly taking control. He collected everyone’s coats and steered his family carefully towardsthe doctor’s house.
            The doctor tended to the wound and Carlos held Manuela close, using his breath to calm and soothe her. It wasn’t long before the doctor placed Nayo in Manuela’s arms and told her not to worry. These things were a normal part of childhood, however hard they were to bear at the time.
‘Accidents happen,’ he said, ‘and we have to allow for them unfortunately. Your boy’s a strong little thing. He was experimenting, that’s all. Testing his own limits. Sometimes they have to learn lessons all by themselves.’

                                                            Lizzie (on the right) at Le Salon

A poem I wanted to read out in 'The Gramophone Years'

From Gitanjali by Rabrindranath Tagore

Thou hast made me known to friends whom I knew not
Thou hast given me seats in homes not my own.
Thou hast brought the distant near and made a brother of the stranger.
I am uneasy at heart when I have to leave my accustomed shelter; I forget there abides the old in the new, and that there also thou abidest.
Through birth and death, in this world or in others, wherever thou leadest me it is thou, the same, the one companion of my endless life who ever linkest my heart with bonds of joy to the unfamiliar.
When one knows thee, then alien there is none, then no door is shut. Oh grant me my prayer that I may never lose the bliss of the touch of the one in the play of the many.

Refugee Blues - WH Auden ( Read by Josephine Aquilina)

REFUGEE BLUES
Say this city has ten million souls,
Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes:
Yet there's no place for us, my dear, yet there's no place for us.

Once we had a country and we thought it fair,
Look in the atlas and you'll find it there:
We cannot go there now, my dear, we cannot go there now.

In the village churchyard there grows an old yew,
Every spring it blossoms anew:
Old passports can't do that, my dear, old passports can't do that.

The consul banged the table and said,
"If you've got no passport you're officially dead":
But we are still alive, my dear, but we are still alive.

Went to a committee; they offered me a chair;
Asked me politely to return next year:
But where shall we go to-day, my dear, but where shall we go to-day?

Came to a public meeting; the speaker got up and said;
"If we let them in, they will steal our daily bread":
He was talking of you and me, my dear, he was talking of you and me.

Thought I heard the thunder rumbling in the sky;
It was Hitler over Europe, saying, "They must die":
O we were in his mind, my dear, O we were in his mind.

Saw a poodle in a jacket fastened with a pin,
Saw a door opened and a cat let in:
But they weren't German Jews, my dear, but they weren't German Jews.

Went down the harbour and stood upon the quay,
Saw the fish swimming as if they were free:
Only ten feet away, my dear, only ten feet away.

Walked through a wood, saw the birds in the trees;
They had no politicians and sang at their ease:
They weren't the human race, my dear, they weren't the human race.

Dreamed I saw a building with a thousand floors,
A thousand windows and a thousand doors:
Not one of them was ours, my dear, not one of them was ours.

Stood on a great plain in the falling snow;
Ten thousand soldiers marched to and fro:
Looking for you and me, my dear, looking for you and me.


WH Auden 

Josephine Aquilina on far right

Jiena Bormliza - Yasmeen Arrif


TITLE      Sometimes its just easier being a Bormlisa

INTRO
                We as human beings
NEED to categorise -
               
we all categorise : at school
                                physical characteristics
                                interest
                                race
                all boxes we need to frame the world around us
                easiest way to do it is slot people into it
                first glance :        slot


                in the adult world these categories continue into what we do and certain assumptions we build around that.

So after putting someone into a slot at first glance
We can provide more details we like to fill in : by entering into a conversation

That enables us put to Mr or Ms X  in yet another slot
ASK A QUESTION GIVE A LABEL ....and so it goes on,
We are building a clearer picture about the person

more interestingly finding areas of commonality with them....
And hey presto we have a conversation.


BUT WHAT HAPPENS WHEN .....

The answers to the stock questions
arent as straight forward?
And rather than oiling the wheels of a
new conversation you stop them dead.

MY dreaded conversation stopper is:
WHERE DO YOU COME FROM?
It is at that point that I have to take in a deep breath and

OFF I go:
I am originally from Burma, of Indian descent….

.... Burma is just west of Thailand, bordered by Bangladesh to ITS west
and China to the north.
….. Yes where there is a military junta and its democratic leader has been under house arrest for the last 20 years.
….. Yes, that beautiful woman  Aung San Su Kyi

My parents migrated to Pakistan, where I was born.
…. yes Benazir Bhutto was sexier… yes, shame she was blown up.

I grew up in Malaysia
- I spent 2 years in Borneo and 7 in West Malaysia. 

I went to expat school there, where all kids were destined for the wide blue yonder after secondary school.
SO
I went to the States and spent a year there.

I came to Malta in the early 80s as a teenager, when my father was posted here as a Pilot with Air Malta

And since then Malta has featured prominently in my life.

And has become a base for my family and myself
and now Im a Maltese citizen.

You see what I mean about being a conversation stopper?

Although there always has been a certain freak value or curiousity about my roots. 
Being an Indian Burmese Pakistani- Maltese who grew up in Malaysia,
I have never found a slot : that I quite fitted into.

SO WHAT PART OF MY HERITAGE TRAIL IS REALLY RELEVANT?

I no longer have any real links with my Indian ancestry -
- 6 generations down the line from Gujerati royal merchants
whose trading routes thrived under the British Raj –

Yet my first visit to India was an entirely surreal experience.
Never set foot in the place but everything was strangely familiar
Because grew up on my fair share of Bollywood films got on well with my smattering of Hindi

Now I consider Burma to be my emotional home the very basis of my identity.
I speak the language, I have family….
But when I am there -  I am an Indian to them but more than anything, a foreigner.

In Pakistan, ,
- even though I was born in the town where Benazir Bhutto was blown up –
I am a foreigner

As a lapsed Muslim, I'm considered an infidel and the political reality there is entirely incompatible with my life choices: divorced, cohabiting, with a child out of wedlock.

But I spent the first years of my life there.  I have some happy child hood memories that aren’t constrained and twisted by this new found conservatism.
SO no, I'm not part of the Mohammeden invasion that’s allegedly threatening these shores.

In England, people assume that my family must have owned a corner store somewhere. And of course I would have some racial axe to grind.
Sorry, NO on both counts.

So these are all the slots I have failed to fall in to.
In failing that slot test, you get relegated to the category of the OTHER.

The many challenges you negotiate as an OTHER
helps you see that the world is not just about the
RIGHT WAY AND THE WRONG WAY
Or US and THEM, although we find it much easier to see it as such
We hang on to what is most familiar to us in
FEAR of what is unfamiliar.

BUT THE GOOD NEWS IS
Some find it easier to really GET where I am from.

I used to live in Safi
- and soon after we moved in
one of the neighbours, asked where I was from.

My friend explained that I was minn BOORMA. 
Suddenly his eyes lit up and it all made sense: 

AHHHHHH Bormlisa! Diik?

Iva, jiena Bormlisa!
Its good to be finally understood!

Le Salon - The Gramophone Years: Contributions

Hello everyone. Thankyou for making last Sunday's event such a success. Of course there is lots of room for improvement and we have taken a lot of your suggestions on board.
Le Salon/Is-Salott has created this blog to share some of the contributions, poems, essays and quotes tossed into the arena last Sunday..and what an eclectic selection we have on offer..
Anchored as it was in the 1930's, 40's and 50's, the themes interweaving 'The Gramophone Years' were Belonging and Nostalgia

To start off some quotations:
On BELONGING


Hypocrisy is the essence of snobbery, but all snobbery is about the problem of belonging.
Alexander Theroux
“She didn't belong anywhere and she never really belonged to anyone. And everyone else belonged somewhere and to someone. People thought she was too wonderful. But she only wanted to belong to someone. People always thought she was too wonderful to belong to them or that something too wonderful would hurt too much to lose. And that's why she liked him-- because he just thought she was crazy.”
C. JoyBell C.
The voice so filled with nostalgia that you could almost see the memories floating through the blue smoke, memories not only of music and joy and youth, but perhaps, of dreams. They listened to the music, each hearing it in his own way, feeling relaxed and a part of the music, a part of each other, and almost a part of the world. ”
Hubert Selby Jr., Requiem for a Dream
“Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it. Embracing our vulnerabilities is risky but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love and belonging and joy—the experiences that make us the most vulnerable. Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light.”
Brene Brown
“[I]t doesn’t matter whom you love or where you move from or to, you always take yourself with you. If you don’t know who you are, or if you’ve forgotten or misplaced her, then you’ll always feel as if you don’t belong. Anywhere. (xiii)”
Sarah Breathnach, Moving On: Creating Your House of Belonging with Simple Abundance
“Perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition.”
James Baldwin, Giovanni's Room
“Before, I wanted to say: "I found love!" But now, I want to say: "I found a person. And he belongs to me and I belong to him.”
C. JoyBell C.
“I been with strangers all day and they treated me like family. I come in here to family and you treat me like a stranger.”
August Wilson, The Piano Lesson
“I wonder whether there is such a thing as a sense of individuality. Is it all a facade, covering a deep need to belong? Are we simply pack animals desperately trying to pretend we are not?”
Rabih Alameddine, I, the Divine: A Novel in First Chapters

On NOSTALGIA
“…nostalgia is, by definition, the least authentic of all feelings.”
Enrique de Hériz, Lies
“Remembrance restores possibility to the past, making what happened incomplete and completing what never was. Remembrance is neither what happened nor what did not happen but, rather, their potentialization, their becoming possible once again.”
Giorgio Agamben, Potentialities: Collected Essays in Philosophy
“Philosophy is really nostalgia, the desire to be at home.”
Novalis
“Nostalgia is inevitably a yearning for a past that never existed.”
John Green
“There is no greater sorrow
Than to recall a happy time
When miserable.”

Dante Alighieri
“I don’t have a photograph, but you can have my footprints. They’re upstairs in my socks.”
Groucho Marx
“Every act of rebellion expresses a nostalgia for innocence and an appeal to the essence of being.”
Albert Camus, The Rebel: An Essay on Man in Revolt
“It's one thing to develop a nostalgia for home while you're boozing with Yankee writers in Martha's Vineyard or being chased by the bulls in Pamplona. It's something else to go home and visit with the folks in Reed's drugstore on the square and actually listen to them. The reason you can't go home again is not because the down-home folks are mad at you--they're not, don't flatter yourself, they couldn't care less--but because once you're in orbit and you return to Reed's drugstore on the square, you can stand no more than fifteen minutes of the conversation before you head for the woods, head for the liquor store, or head back to Martha's Vineyard, where at least you can put a tolerable and saving distance between you and home. Home may be where the heart is but it's no place to spend Wednesday afternoon.”
Walker Percy, Lost in the Cosmos: The Last Self-Help Book