Quotes About Nostalgia

Later, years later even, sometimes I might say, How about the duel on the cliff with Inigo and the man in black? and my father would gruff and grumble and get the book and lick his thumb, turning pages till the mighty battle began.

And I cannot touch her face  And I cannot touch her hair, And I kneel to empty shadows-- Just memories of her grace; And her voice sings in the winds And in the sobs of dawn And among the flowers at night And from the brooks at sunrise And from the sea at sunset, And I answer with vain callings  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Scenes An old house in a run-down neighborhood of a Midwestern city.

DOC    (Goes into living room) 'Bout time for Fibber McGee and Molly.

She does, certain; the best of young folks is, they remind us of the old ones. 'Tis nateral to cling to life, folks say, but for me, I git impatient at times. Most everybody's gone now, an' I want to be goin'. 'Tis somethin' before me, an' I want to have it over with. I want to be there 'long o' the rest o' the folks. I expect to last quite awhile, though; I may see ye couple o' times more, John.

we went over to the bar of the Hotel California

Being a child is like nothing. It's only being. Later, when we think about it, we make it into youth.

A classic unspoken agreement among escapees from a small town: don't look back, don't be each other's anchors, no nostalgia.

The return to anywhere you last visited as a child is difficult, especially when it's a door. Your heart beats harder when you knock.

Era como volver a ser niña, aunque no lo fuera. No hay nada comparable a ser niño. Ser niño es solo ser. Después, cuando lo pensamos, lo convertimos en juventud.

classic unspoken agreement among escapees from a small town: don't look back, don't be each other's anchors, no nostalgia.

Being a child is like nothing. It's only being. Later, when we think about it, we make it into youth.

Same weather over here as back home," I said.

It felt like being a child again, though it was not. Being a child is like nothing. It's only being. Later, when we think about it, we make it into youth.

But you no longer heard the song. You had gone away, my boy, into your tale. Did you know that you would never turn into a fish, that you would never reach Issyk-Kul, or see the white ship, or say to it: "Hello, white ship, it's I"? You swam away.

Ng??i ?àn bà thông thái ?y h?n là gi? ?ây ?ang nh? l?i tu?i xuân c?a mình, cái tu?i xuân mà, nh? l?i hát trong các bài dân ca c?a chúng tôi, d?u có ??ng trên ??nh núi cao nh?t c?ng không sao g?i th?u

photographic memory for places.

I long to stretch out on the sofa, wrapping myself in the red quilt that's lying there. Then, with a stab, I recognize the quilt. My father had brought it back from a business trip he took to New England long ago. Ironic, how objects remain in your life long after people have exited.

So many photos, so carefully preserved. How absurdly central I'd been to my mother's life.

What I am leaving behind—I cannot articulate what it is, but I know I will not find it, ever, in America.

It was always a fantasy of mine growing up - my favorite program was always 'Little House on the Prairie' - so I always wanted to wear those looks. When I was a child, I wouldn't let my mom put me in anything but calico dresses and now... whaddaya know, every day I'm in a calico dress, basically, so it's kind of funny.

We left in the same kind of truck that had brought us to the camp ten years earlier. When it started up, I was taken back to our departure from Pyongyang, and to my mother's tear-lined face as it receded into the distance. The vision struck me with new and unexpected force - for I had all but forgotten my mother.

Something that had the quality of a dimly lit stage set just before the curtains rise on opening night. There was a rhythm to it, a beckoning, and a bittersweet tear in time.

I woke with the taste of your apple pie in my mouth, carried over no doubt from my dreams. It made me realize how much I miss you and our home.