Quotes About Nostalgia

I'm not a very nostalgic person. I don't really look at the past and summon up regrets, or self-congratulations, it just is not a mechanism that operates very strongly in me. So I neither have regrets nor occasions for self-congratulations.

Garages, barns and attics are always older than the buildings to which they are attached.

Fare thee well my nightingale I lived but to be near you Though you are singing somewhere still I can no longer hear you

How sweet time feels when it's too late

I ache in the places where I used to play...

I never think about The Past but sometimes The Past thinks about me and sits down ever so lightly on my face—

What I loved in my old life--I haven't forgotten--it lives in my spine.

And all I've said was just instead Of coming back to you.

Boxes of fireworks - she remembered them filling her childhood, at every occasion she could think of, gods, where had the Popisho fireworks gone? Mad swirls of silver-blue lightning and crimson stars. A whole sky of melting yellow moons that trickled into their hair and faces and turned into caramel.

I'm going to be an orphan like you." .... "I miss everything.

There's something about these obscure vignettes of former lives that's very powerful. Our woods are full of old cellar holes, tumbled-down chimneys, ancient scraggly lilacs absurdly tall still stretching toward the light.

The juke box was playing a Mexican polka

Mas a vida tinha lá seus mistérios e suas surpresas: nenhum de nós naquela casa voltaria a ser o mesmo de antes, nem os risos nunca mais soariam tão leves e límpidos, nunca mais aquelas vozes todas reunidas na mesma sala, nunca mais.

Sometimes my family thinks I've made my childhood a bit more Dickensian than it was, and it probably wasn't all that bad. But I was uncomfortable as a kid.

His crush went from exciting to depressing, as if he'd gone from the first blush of infatuation to the terminal nostalgia of a former lover without even the temporary relief of an actual relationship in between.

It was a bookstore, and he felt at home in bookstores, and he hadn't had that feeling much lately. He was going to enjoy it. He pushed his way back through the racks of greeting cards and cat calendars, back to where the actual books were, his glasses steaming up and his coat dripping on the thin carpet. It didn't matter where you were, if you were in a room full of books you were at least halfway home.

We have lived too long. The great days are past.

This was a double game: he was trying to save his childhood, to preserve it and trap it in amber, but to do that he was calling on things that partook of the world beyond childhood, whose touch would leave him even less innocent than he already was. What would that make him? Neither a child nor an adult, neither innocent nor wise. Perhaps that is what a monster is.

It turns out you can go home again, if you have to.

If my generation is remembered for anything, it will be as the last one that remembers the world before the Internet.

Free Trader Beowulf—you had to be at least forty and a recovering pen-and-paper role-playing-gamer to get the reference, but it was apt. Google it.

Plover's words were like dried flowers, stiff and crumbling, crushed flat between pages, when we'd had the living, blooming blossoms all around

The memories were safe, sealed forever in amber.

When he saw Julia, he searched himself for the old love he used to feel for her. It wasn't gone, but it was a dull, distant ache, still there but healed over-- just the shrapnel they couldn't remove.