Quotes About Nostalgia

One day in the fall of 2010 he was wistfully going through a box of old snapshots with me, and paused over one that showed him visiting Lisa when she was young. "I probably didn't go over there enough," he said. Since he had not spoken to her all that year, I asked if he might want to reach out to her with a call or email. He looked at me blankly for a moment, then went back to riffling through other old photographs.

like it. It sounded almost disco, and he gloomily argued that Dylan had been going downhill since Blood on the Tracks. So Hertzfeld moved the needle to the last song on the album, "Dark Eyes," which was a simple acoustic number featuring Dylan

He told her, somewhat emotionally, that he wished she could have seen him when he was managing a Mediterranean restaurant north of San José. That was a wonderful place, he said. All of the successful technology people used to come there. Even Steve Jobs. (......) Mona was able to refrain from blurting out, Steve Jobs is your son!

She's everything I wanted when I was young and everything I distrust now that I'm not.

Willa was wearing a blue dress reminding me of the femme fatale of one of my favorite novels.

Thou hast had thty day, old dame, but thy sun has long been set. Thou art now the very emblem of an old warhorse turned out on the barren heath; thou hast had thy paces in thy time, but now a broken amble is the best of them.

There are few more melancholy sensations than those with which we regard scenes of past pleasure when altered and deserted.

There was a time when I liked a good riot. Put on some heavy old street clothes that could stand a bit of sidewalk-scraping, infect myself with something good and contagious, then go out and stamp on some cops. It was great, being nine years old.

I wish I still had that photo.

Once in a very blue moon, John Tallow imagined his younger self standing down the timeline of his present life, bare toes curling in teenage beach sand, looking ahead to today and watching his future life collapse in on itself like a dying star. His future life becoming small and dark and dense, its gravity apparently grim and inescapable. Once in a very blue moon, John Tallow spent some cash on a bottle of vodka and drank it at home within an hour.

You never forget your first love.

I miss school. What's wrong with me?

My life is over. Behind

El que todavía estaba avergonzado por sostener mi mano dos días antes de entrar a segundo grado. El que todavía era demasiado tímido para decir mucho más que hola. El que todavía estaba caminando por ahí con mi primer beso.

And so there would always be more to remember that could no longer be seen...our history is always returning to a little patch of weeds and saplings with an old chimney sticking up by itself...and here I look ahead to the resting of my case: I love the house that belonged to the chimney, holding it bright in memory, and love the saplings and the weeds.

Back there in the beginning, as I see now, my life was all time and almost no memory. Though I knew early of death, it still seemed to be something that happened only to other people, and I stood in an unending river of time that would go on making the same changes and the same returns forever. And now, nearing the end, I see that my life is almost entirely memory and very little time.

Books were a dependable pleasure. I read more then than I ever was able to read again until now when I am too old to work much and am mostly alone.

The world goes up and the world goes down, And the sunshine follows the rain; And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown Can never come over again, Sweet wife. No, never come over again.

Oh Mary, go and call the cattle home…Across the sands of Dee.

Now that I look back on it, having retired from being a reporter, it was kind of romantic. It was a wonderful way to live one's life, just as I imagined it would be when I was 6 or 7.

A book reads the better which is our own, and has been so long known to us, that we know the topography of its blots, and dog's ears, and can trace the dirt in it to having read it at tea with buttered muffins.

I have had playmates, I have had companions,In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

A book reads the better which is our own, and has been so long known to us, that we know the topography of its blots, and dog's ears, and can trace the dirt in it to having read it at tea with buttered muffins.

Sometimes I lie awake at night and think about that little red-haired girl... I don't ever want to forget her face, but if I don't forget her face, I'll go crazy... How can I remember the face I can't forget? Suddenly I'm writing country western music!