Quotes About Nostalgia

Would you?" Mom smiles and touches my hair, pushing it back from my forehead. I let her, but I grit my teeth. Her bare fingers brush my skin. I am thankful when none of my amulets crack. "Do you know what the Turkish say about coffee? It should be black as hell, strong as death, and sweet as love. Isn't that beautiful? My grandfather told me that when I was a little girl, and I never forgot it. Unfortunately, I still like my milk.

It's not fair. We had a story, and our story was important. And I hate that both of you can just walk away and take part of my story with you and not even care. I hate that you can do what you're supposed to do and I can't. I hate that you're going to leave me behind. I hate that everyone calls it growing up, but it seems like dying. It feels like each of you is being possessed and I'm next.

Sometimes I go down and stare at it, trying to see my parents in the tide lines of dried blood. I want to feel something, something besides a vague queasiness. I want to feel more, but every time I look at it, I feel less.

When I was a kid and brought friends over , I was defiantly proud of the chaos. I liked that I knew how to jump over the piles and the shattered glass while they stumbled. Now it just seems like an ocean of crazy that I have no way to explain.

He smiled, a real smile, the kind real boys gave real girls. "It's been a very long time since anyone worried for me.

Her mother bent close, the smell of whiskey and beer and sweat as familiar as any perfume to Kaye.

An unhappy childhood is supposed to make you grow up fast, but I still feel like a kid a lot of the time.

I take a deep breath, at home and homesick all at the same time.

I am hungry. I realize, but I feel too sick to eat. Is this what it is to be brokenhearted? I am not sure it is Locke I am sick over, so much as the world the way it was before the coronation began. But if I could undo the passing of the days, why not unwind them to before I killed Valerian, why not unwind them until my parents are alive, why not unwind them all the way to the beginning?

If there is nothing but this;" Roiben said. "If we are to be shadows, changeless and forgotten, we will have to dine on these memories for the rest of our days. Don't you want a few more moments to chew over?

I gobble the food down, trying to imagine that I am sitting at the table with them. Trying to imagine myself as their daughter again, and not what's left of her. A cuckoo trying to fit back into the egg.

No one remembers the language they took in high school.

But for one final night, he's the father I remember best, the one in whose shadow I have -- for better or for worse -- become who I am.

But for one final night, he's the father I remember best, the one in whose shadow I have- for better or worse- become what I am.

O lady fair! O lady cruel! How I miss your sweet misrule. I miss your hair. I miss your eyes. But most of all, I miss your thighs.

He remembered her with ink-stained fingers and a messy apartment full of paperbacks.

Opening the window, I sit at Taryn's desk and sip nettle tea, drinking in the sharp salt scent of the sea and the wild honeysuckle and the distant breeze through the trees. I take a deep breath, at home and homesick all at the same time.

I am overcome with a feeling of nostalgia for something I haven't yet lost.

Mother Marrow gestures to the soup, and I, who can afford no more enemies, bring it to my lips. It tastes of a memory I cannot quite place, warm afternoons and splashing in pools and kicking plastic toys across the brown grass of summer lawns. Tears spring to my eyes. I want to spill it out in to the dirt. I want to drink it down to the dregs.

I wonder what the kid I was then would think of the people we are now.

Los niños no somos olvidadizos.

But for one final night, he's the father I remember best

And if I am particularly kind that evening, particularly deferential, if I laugh particularly loudly, it is because I know I will never do this again. I will never have him behave like this with me again. But for one final night, he's the father I remember best, the one in whose shadow I have- for better or worse- become what I am.

All happiness lasts but a moment, and the time that follows is only good for remembering what we have lost. —Homero Aridjis, Persephone (Vintage, 1986)