Quotes About Nostalgia

Hey Glasgow, it's Saturday night!' He did it with such rapture, such a sense of celebration that Jane realised she had long ago forgotten why. Saturday night was meaningless when every day was the same, when you were never going to do anything special with it anyway. But this was a stirring reminder of what it used to mean.

When they drove past it on the motorway, he used to fantasise that his parents were about to turn their vehicle towards the car park and surprise him, say the boot was full of secretly packed luggage and they were heading off for a fortnight. When he had kids of his own, he'd told himself, he'd surprise them that way for real.

Or to really care what time it was, in an America where the idea of the future was a form of nostalgia rarely discussed outside of corner bars and neighborhood marijuana dispensaries.

Once they're both gone, your parents' house instantly turns into a museum.

Second hand bookshops are best visited alone and in the rain.

Now, the tourist hot spots of the city were the very parts that made it like everywhere else. Was it possible to imagine those buildings without inhaling the animal-fat stink of McDonald's or KFC? He never thought London would cease to appeal to him, but the little faded glory it still possessed was being scuffed away by the dead hand of globalization. On his down days he saw London as a crumbling ancient house, slowly collapsing under the weight of its own past.

Having failed the Civil Service entrance examinations, he had become – she recalled – a clerk at the London office of the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank on 31 Lombard Street, at the age of eighteen – one of his 'fellow employees' there had been the young P. G. Wodehouse

JENNET: They also say that I bring back the past; For instance Helen comes Brushing the maggots from her eyes, And, clearing here throat of the dust of several thousand years She says "I loved ..."; but cannot any longer Remember names. Sad Helen. Or Alexander, wearing His imperial cobwebs and breastplate of shining worms Wakens and looks for his glasses, to find the empire Which he knows he put beside his bed.

They say that I bring back the past; For instance, Helen comes, Brushing the maggots from her eyes, And, clearing her throat of several thousand years, She says 'I loved . . .'; but cannot any longer Remember names. Sad Helen. Or Alexander, wearing His imperial cobwebs and breastplate of shining worms Wakens and looks for his glasses, to find the empire Which he knows he put beside his bed.

When I was younger, I had a perm, and it was really big. My mom was a hairdresser, so even my dad had a perm! I looked like a poodle, but it was cool at the time.

Jews who long have drifted from the faith of their fathers... are stirred in their inmost parts when the old, familiar Passover sounds chance to fall upon their ears.

The stones here speak to me, and I know their mute language. Also, they seem deeply to feel what I think. So a broken column of the old Roman times, an old tower of Lombardy, a weather-beaten Gothic piece of a pillar understands me well. But I am a ruin myself, wandering among ruins.

Childhood is a slum and they love it.

Ten times a day it stopped me like a bolt into my chest: that she was no longer here. That she would never be here. That I might walk and walk and yet I would never again come home to her.

You live in the past,' Kate said. 'You live in your grandfather's time.' But she was wrong. The past was not something we could live in, because it had nothing to do with life. It was something we lugged about, as heavy as a sack of rotting apples.

I scroll through iPhone photos and see that if I delete pictures of myself with a double chin, I will erase all proof of my glorious life.

What about your past? How often would you travel there, given the chance? Often? Never? And when you got there, would you think about staying forever?

We keep stuff in order to hang on to what's important, but it's an illusion ... These objects are not bridges to the past, they're bridges to memories of the past. But they are not the past.

the past that has not passed away

memory movement of the 1990s.

Time--our youth--it never really goes, does it It is all held in our minds.

Home is the place where we've felt the most, I will tell him. And that can be anyplace. Or anyone. It doesn't matter how long you lived there. It's what you'll always want to come back to.

Time doesn't really soften anything. Memories heave up, you know.

Smell is a potent wizard that transports you across thousand of miles and all the years you have lived.