Quotes About Nostalgia

I remember things that happened sixty years ago, but if you ask me where I left my car keys five minutes ago, that's sometimes a problem.

I like Stevie Wonder. I usually wind up playing the same old tapes in the car.

I went to watch my father at Silverstone in the early 1950s, and I've still got the car he was in.

I listen to tapes a lot. I have a car that only (has a cassette player). I like the nostalgic factor.

I've been in California for about 15 years now. You're always in your car and insulated. I miss New York so much.

I used to let the olde english 8- suds bubble in the last car of the Franklin Avenue shuttle

We all know about the car breaking down on a deserted road scenario. That's cliché. I'm thinking more of Cider with Rosie, as in, the dark side.

I grew up listening to Frank Sinatra, riding in the car with my grandpa, and I was just intrigued by it.

I think sitting in the car with your parents and listening to music is an essential to growing up.

Cars are like rolling diaries, metal and plastic and paint tableaux of the last ten years of their drivers' lives ... every dent, every drooping slice of chrome, has a story behind it.

My first car was a 1986 Toyota pickup.

I did a lot of gasoline commercials - Hess, Texaco. I was part of the family in the car, the little brat in the back.

The band is like a vintage car. You take it out to go for a spin for a couple miles, but you wouldn't drive across the country.

My dad always played Anne Murray in the car on the way to the dump when I was a kid.

I'm still that little girl who lisped and sat in the back of the car and threw vegetables at the back of her head when we drove home from the market. That never goes.

Intellectuals cannot tolerate the chance event, the unintelligible: they have a nostalgia for the absolute, for a universally comprehensive scheme.

All of us collect fortunes when we are children. A fortune of colors, of lights, and darkness, of movement, of tensions. Some of us have the fantastic chance to go back to his fortune when grown up.

Far as I'm concerned, they're all still here, like a lot of dear little ghosts.

She saw the shadows of her children, young again, playing on that tree. And now to be here with him. You cross your own path.

Children are not like us. They are beings apart: impenetrable, unapproachable. They inhabit not our world but a world we have lost and can never recover. We do not remember childhood – we imagine it. We search for it, in vain, through layers of obscuring dust, and recover some bedraggled shreds of what we think it was. And all the while the inhabitants of this world are among us, like aborigines, like Minoans, people from elsewhere safe in their own time-capsule. I

Charlotte misses her books. Her familiar walls, lined with language.

Children are not like us. They are beings apart: impenetrable, unapproachable. They inhabit not our world but a world we have lost and can never recover. We do not remember childhood – we imagine it. We search for it, in vain, through layers of obscuring dust, and recover some bedraggled shreds of what we think it was. And all the while the inhabitants of this world are among us, like aborigines, like Minoans, people from elsewhere safe in their own time-capsule.

Charlotte views her younger selves with a certain detachment. They are herself, but other incarnations, innocents going about half-forgotten business.

Tirámos fotografias desse tempo em que os filhos de um e de outro com respectivas proles estiveram reunidos em férias na Itália. Fotografias que agora preenchem vazios.