Quotes About Nostalgia

A house with old furniture has no need of ghosts to be haunted.

[Skipping] takes me back to less complicated times, without leaving the present!

The centuries roll back to the ancient age of gold.

A praiser of past time.

The illusion that times that were are better than those that are, has probably pervaded all ages.

romántico hasta sentir el estado de dolorosa melancolía que provoca una simple garúa que agrisa el patio

Nada hay más bello y que fortalezca más en la vida, que un puro recuerdo».

Nada hay más bello y que fortalezca más en la vida, que un puro recuerdo

A happy childhood can't be cured. Mine'll hang around my neck like a rainbow, that's all, instead of a noose.

The fog was made more beautiful by its passing, like flags in the spring; like the last drone of cicadas in a dying summer; like the brief yellow of hickories, the purple of sweetgums, in the fall. You loved most the things that passed away, that you couldn't hold on to, no matter how much you loved them.

And all of it seemed far away and long ago, along with the hard voices promising violence and the eyes bright with anger. page 126; THE TASTE OF ASHES by Howard Browne.

The world turns, and life changes, the good old days are fantasies-just screened memories.

I don't think man is blessed with memory. More often he is cursed with it. I have too many memories.

We'll always have Paris.

How she wished she were back at home with her family, strumming her banjo on the porch while Grampa Cornpone played the fiddle. Oh, the steamy bayou nights of her youth! Ma would cook up a huge pan of Creole innards, whilst Pa sat in the corner smoking his pipe of tabaccy with the hound dogs snoozing at his feet.

For mysterious reasons, many authors consider it useful to provide a story about a forty-year-old man-about-town with a prologue drawn from his life as a five-year-old boy. ... There's only one letter's difference between "yarn" and "yawn," and it is often a long letter, filled with childhood memories.

any given moment can suddenly fill you with a sense of elegiac anticipation.

When I returned, I never once walked past the house where my mother, aunt, and I lved together...It was as if the past would judge me. The house would judge me. That merely looking at it would somehow cause me to calibrate my life, and in all aspects of usefulness I would come up short.

As I lean back in my chair, it seems like only yesterday as I think back to the mid-'80s, a time of mullets, Jordache jeans and skinny ties.

As I lay in bed before leaving for practice, I looked over on my wall and saw the collage of hockey players I did when I was 6 years old for art class. Next to that was a Pittsburgh Penguins pennant and below that was a poster of Wayne Gretzky. It was this really cool photo of him on a pond standing by a net with his Edmonton Oilers jersey on.

My perspective on my mother has changed immensely. She was a lot taller when I was younger.

The voice so filled with nostalgia that you could almost see the memories floating through the blue smoke, memories not only of music and joy and youth, but perhaps, of dreams. They listened to the music, each hearing it in his own way, feeling relaxed and a part of the music, a part of each other, and almost a part of the world.

My folks were raised pure prohibitionist. They were very good people, with high moral standards - but very repressed. There was no hugging and kissing in my home.

To be modern means to like antique furniture - and youthful neurosis.