Quotes About Nostalgia

Maybe it's because nothing ever tastes the same as it did when you were ten.

Defunct, adj. You brought home a typewriter for me.

One last song. One last turn. One last street. No matter how hard you try to keep hold of a day, its going to leave you

Harry's parents present the two boys with a canister of Binaca. We laugh when it's clear that neither boy knows what it is. How would we explain it to them? That long ago, when you wanted your breath to be doused with mint, you'd pull out one of these slim metal tubes and spritz a little Binaca into your mouth. Whether you were covering up booze or covering up a more general sourness, you could rely on this hissing blast to do the trick.

Jennifer Lynch: My father deeply loved both of his parents, but he also despised all that goodness, the white picket fence and all that. He has a romantic idea of that stuff, but he also hated it because he wanted to smoke cigarettes and live the art life, and they went to church and everything was perfect and quiet and good. It made him a little nutty.

I used to go to Bob's Big Boy restaurant just about every day from the mid-seventies until the early eighties. I'd have a milk shake and sit and think. There's a safety in thinking in a diner. You can have your coffee or your milk shake, and you can go off into strange dark areas, and always come back to the safety of the diner.

The stone rests on his hand with undeniable ease, a slightly embarrassing friend: an acquaintance from younger, more impetuous days...

Perhaps I have not mentioned the tennis courts.

Lying flat against the tile of the kitchen floor listening to someone else have sex is essentially my early twenties in a nutshell.

Like anyone nostalgic for a time he didn't live through, I chose to weed out the little inconveniences: polio, say, or the thought of eating stewed squirrel. The world was simply grander back then, somehow more civilized, and nicer to look at.

I hoped our lives would continue this way forever, but inevitably the past came knocking. Not the good kind that was collectible but the bad kind that had arthritis.

While I know I can't control it, what I ultimately hope to recall about my late-in-life father is not his nagging or his toes but, rather, his fingers, and the way he snaps them when listening to jazz. He's done it forever, signifying, much as a cat does by purring, that you may approach. That all is right with the world. "Man, oh man," he'll say in my memory, lifting his glass and taking us all in, "isn't this just fantastic

September 14, 2001 What killed me, what killed many of us, was the very end: My home sweet home. Because, whatever else Paris might be, this _is not_ our home, it's just the place where we have our jobs or apartments. How could we have forgotten that?

In binghamton, new york, winter meant snow, and though I was young when we left, I was able to recall great heaps of it, and use that memory as evidence that North Carolina was, at best, a third-rate institution. What little snow there was would usually melt an hour or two after hitting the ground, and there you'd be in your windbreaker and unconvincing mittens, forming a lumpy figure made mostly of mud. Snow Negroes, we called them. The

They did not live in a child's house, we lived in theirs.

You'd think my mother could have seen the difference between the sunny, likable her and the dark one who'd call late at night. I could hear the ice cubes in her glass rushing forth whenever she took a sip. In my youth, when she'd join my father for a drink after work—"Just one, I have to get dinner on the table"—that was a happy sound. Now it was like a trigger being cocked.

I'd wish then that I could afford to go to the ticket counter and buy a seat on the next plane back to where I'd come from.

Hey," he said, "that's where we used to go when we were a family.

They're pictures you take of yourself with a phone and send to the people you no longer communicate with by talking.

When we went to the beach as children, on or about the fourth day, our father would say, Wouldn't it be nice to buy a cottage down here? We'd get our hopes up and then he would bring practical concerns into it... But still, we wanted one desperately. I told myself when I was young that one day I would buy a beach house and then it would be everyone's. As long as they followed my draconian rules and never stopped thanking me for it.

Judy Nylon, who as a child had sought succour from her parents' escapist 'exotica' albums and regularly drifted off to sleep to the lulling vibraphones of Martin Denny's Quiet Village, recalls a slightly different version of events: 'So it was pouring rain in Leicester Square

Hemos convertido el presente en algo de lo que huir a toda prisa, aunque sea hacia el pasado.

I started playing that game I play when I'm feeling lonely, the one where I review all of my prior relationships, marveling that so many sweet, smart, pretty girls have come into my life and that I've found a way to fuck things up with every one of them.

She would like to be on a train named Nightfall going to some place where she'd be twenty-five years old.