Quotes About Nostalgia

It's weird how when you don't hang out with someone for a while and then you do again, you miss them. It's like you forget to miss them until they show up to remind you.

Nadine would never forget this death because it had been her eighth birthday. Arleen had come home late, striding into the trailer in wet underwear carrying a boxed cake so warm the frosted flowers had melted off the top. To this day, those innocuous cake boxes with the clear-plastic tops made Nadine's stomach clench.

It is good to find comfort in memories," Mr. Fry said gently.

But Sarah, my dear, don't wish for excitement. Interesting doesn't always mean good. Sometimes the most ordinary things are the ones we learn to miss the most.

Every time Suzanne thinks about her mother's sulfur-blue eyes it rains.

and was struck by the next image I saw. Francesca's arm held the door open for Mike, whose bare arms were strapped around a dusty taped box with my name scribbled on it. My past giving way to my future, which embraced my past. Mike

I'll never forget my first time with you' Min said as she edged the doughnut off her finger. 'The earth moved, and then my mother asked my father who he was going down on at lunch.

As far as I'm concerned the last good man went when Elvis died.

Wonder of wonders, the box had Elvis. Immediately the bar seemed a better place. She fed in coins and then punched the keys for Hound Dog. Too bad Elvis had never recorded one called Dickhead.

Christ, I'm in a Doris Day movie

I swear, Nell said, walking faster, you're looking at a life of hamburger and no yelling. She held the dachshund closer, and it sighed this time and put its head on her arm, and she stopped to look down into its eyes. Hello, she said, and SugarPie stared back, pathetic and wide-eyed in the glow from the streetlight, her eyelashes fluttering like a Southern belle confronted by a Yankee.

It wouldn't be so bad if I hadn't thought, for just that one night, that there was more.

And then he left, and came back, and our lives fell apart, like a well-loved book that you'd read and read again, until one night you picked it up to read yourself to sleep and the binding collapsed, sending dozens of pages spiraling toward the floor.

Your first love is important. It's part of your story. The story you'll tell yourself, the one you'll tell about yourself, for the rest of your life.

Maybe when you first experience a place as a six-year-old, you become six again, every time you return.

Did any love ever feel as sweet as first love? Were we all just damaged goods now, battered cans in the grocery store sale bin, day old bread, marked down at the registered, hoping that someone would look past the obvious flaws and love us enough to take us home?

The air smelled like the inside of the cabins at the summer camp in Maine: must from the off-season, wet wood and mold, bug spray and sunscreen, sunshine and sweaty kids. The essence of summertime.

On the best days, there'd be a new package of margarine, and Bethie would be allowed to break the capsule of yellow dye and squish it all around until all the margarine was yellow-colored.

When I looked up, I wasn't surprised to find that my feet had taken me back to where it had all began. In the daytime, the windows at Dive 75 were dark, the door shut tight. It didn't look special, but it was, in a way, the place where I'd been born. The site of my greatest shame and my greatest triumph.

She wished Martin hadn't taken his Encyclopaedia Britannica with him when they split up. She missed that more than she missed him.

In the olden days it was easy to make a television work.You plugged an aerial cable into the back, then bashed the top with your fist until, eventually, Hughie Green stopped jumping up and down.

He leaned in. "Kiss me, one last time." I called up a distant memory of his lips against mine. But this time, I kept my eyes open. When he pulled back, Logan passed his hand over my hair. "Don't forget me, okay?

Contemporary social forces implore us to embrace a mythical polarity—black or white, right or wrong, good or bad—relying on our nostalgia for simpler times, for our own childhoods.

We like, we cherish, we are very, very fond of—but we never love again.