Quotes About Nostalgia

My childhood smells like a box of Crayola crayons.

Some Passages from a Journal That Was Never Kept

My aesthetic is I love anything in the late 1800s, early 1900s.

I believe ghost story writing is a dying art.

????? ????? ????? ????? ????? Moonlight spreads before my bed. I wonder if it's hoarfrost on the ground. I raise my head to watch the moon And lowering it, I think of home. "REFLECTION IN A QUIET

I would even argue that, for many displaced people, nostalgia is also blended with fear - the fear of uncertainty and of facing the challenges posed by the larger world and the fear of the absence of the clarity and confidence provided by the past. In essence, nostalgia is associated mostly with the experience of a particular type of migrants, namely, exiles.

He sat down in a corner and ordered half a pound of dumplings, which came in a white bowl with a blue rim. While he was eating, his memory was further revived and sharpened by the familiar taste of the stuffing, made of pork, leeks, cabbage, dried shrimp, ginger, sesame oil. Every bit of the memory became unmistakable now.

Did there come a point, beyond which we no longer look forward to something coming,but only to getting away from what had passed?

Or so he understood it. If you have twelve treasured memories, his Uncle Arndt had once said as Münster sat on his knee, you will have led a happy life.

If the portraits of our absent friends are pleasant to us, which renew our memory of them and relieve our regret for their absence by a false and empty consolation, how much more pleasant are letters which bring us the written characters of the absent friend.

The homeland is a language and exile is a metaphor

It had been a while since Mina had been properly hugged. Not since her sister. Mina sat at the kitchen table as memories flooded back.

My recollection of a hundred lovely lakes has given me blessed release from care and worry and the troubled thinking of our modern day. It has been a return to the primitive and the peaceful.

The cruellest thing you can do to Kerouac is reread him at thirty-eight.

To this day, whenever I'm in Milwaukee, which is often, I'm reminded that the people there still haven't gotten over the Braves leaving ... If it helps, they should know the players haven't either.

Memories, you see, hurt. The good ones most of all.

Her face was a face to go with one through the years, and to live still in one's dreams when the sap of life is gone.

Memorial services are the cocktail parties of the geriatric set.

Funny how you can go along for years hardly thinking about someone, then all of a sudden be so glad to see him.

Strange, what brings these past things so vividly back to us, sometimes!

They have not considered that memories are like corks left out of bottles. They swell. They no longer fit.

It was dreadful, when she thought about it with the tiniest bit of hindsight, to admit this was the case. That a small part of herself was such a masochist, so enjoyed putting herself through all of this, that she liked hearing sad songs on the radio and staring gloomily out the window late at night. The tears in her eyes as she walked home of an evening, thinking about how much she loved him and how great they were together. It was so adolescent.

She didn't want to forget how deeply she had loved him, how important it had been to her; she felt as if to discard the memory would be a betrayal of her younger self.

Since being back in London everything seemed greyer, but clearer. She couldn't explain it. The strangest thing was she couldn't recall her New York self. She wanted that part of herself back, but she couldn't remember what it was like to be that Elle. She would catch a whiff of it, like the snatch of a song that still won't lead you to the chorus, and then it would be gone.