Quotes About Nostalgia

When the breakfast dishes are cleared, she starts on the large midday meal: chicken pie or pot roast or fish stew; mashed or boiled potatoes; peas or carrots, fresh or canned, depending on the season. What's left over reappears at supper, transformed into a casserole or a stew. Mother

It's a bitter nostalgia from a moment not yet passed.

How strange, I think—that I am in a place my parents have never been and will never see. How strange that I am here and they are gone.

She offers me a bull's-eye sweet, which she's stashed in her apron pocket with a half-dozen half-smoked Afton butts—a mix of flavors I'll never forget. On the front of the yellow cigarette box is a poem by Robert Burns that Gram likes to sing to an old Irish tune: Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes. Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise.

Every person you've ever cared about, and every place you've ever loved, is one of these shells. You're the thread that ties them together," she'd said, touching Mathinna's cheek. "You carry the people and places you cherish with you.

Now Molly takes the knife and pokes it through the tape of the box Vivian has chosen: 1929–1930. Vivian, sitting on a wooden chest, waits patiently. After opening the flaps, Molly lifts out a mustard-colored coat, and Vivian scowls. "Mercy sake," she says. "I can't believe I saved that coat. I always hated it.

Unwrapping the leftover currant bread at the Grotes' that evening, I tell them about my party. Mr. Grote snorts. "How ridiculous, celebrating a birth date. I don't even know the day I was born, and I sure can't remember any of theirs," he says, swinging his hand toward his kids. "But let's have that cake.

other, better, memories: making fried eggs with her dad, turning them over with a large black plastic spatula. "Not so fast, Molly Molasses," he'd say. "Easy. Otherwise the eggs'll go splat.

neighborhood, the place I left each

Vivian said she wanted to clean out her attic. But I think what she really wanted was to see what was in those boxes one last time. And remember those parts of her life.

the tattered paper with Mark Flannery, The Irish Rose, Delancey Street,

Every person you've ever cared about, and every place you've ever loved, is one of these shells. You're the thread that ties them together," she'd said, touching Mathinna's cheek. "You carry the people and places you cherish with you. Remember that and you will never be lonely,

Feeding Carmine bread soaked in milk reminds me of the Irish dish called champ I often made for Maisie and the boys—a mash of potatoes, milk, green onions (on the rare occasion when we had them), and salt. On the nights when we went to bed hungry, all of us dreamed of that champ.

Remember me when I am gone away, gone far away into the silent land.

Yes, my first memory of singing, in general, was of a Christmas song. And then listening to Christmas music was really the first music I was ever connected to.

Every night I fell asleep to a different Beatles album. So I'm very familiar with the Beatles Ringo was my favorite Beatle until I grew up and then changed. I made the switch over to George Harrison just in time to regain my cool.

My sister and I shared a bedroom our entire lives and I believe she discovered the Beatles when she was about 11 and I'm four years younger. So from the age of 7 until 17 we had nothing but Beatles paraphernalia in our room, even those little stuffed Beatles that went on stands that are dressed as the Sgt. Pepper band.

Ah me, but where are now the songs I sang When life was sweet because you call'd them sweet?

Where are the songs I used to know, Where are the notes I used to sing? I have forgotten everything I used to know so long ago. ("The Key-Note")

For I have hedged me with a thorny hedge, I live alone, I look to die alone: Yet sometimes, when a wind sighs through the sedge, Ghosts of my buried years, and friends come back, My heart goes sighing after swallows flown On sometime summer's unreturning track.

I WISH I WERE A LITTLE BIRD I wish I were a little bird That out of sight doth soar, I wish I were a song once heard But often pondered o'er, Or shadow of a lily stirred By wind upon the floor, Or echo of a loving word Worth all that went before, Or memory of a hope deferred That springs again no more.

Vetëm kur na ndodh që e humbasim diçka, e kthejmë kokën pas dhe fillojmë t'ia ndiejmë mungesën.

As we head to our last dinner, on a yacht, I am oddly nostalgic for that earlier, more guerrilla Cannes. I wonder if I'd sleep on the floor to get it back.

There will never be another Camelot," she told White wistfully. "There will be great presidents again—and the Johnsons are wonderful, they've been wonderful to me—but there'll never be another Camelot again.