Quotes About Nostalgia

Heartland Now that we've given our hearts away With the bric-a-brac, we want them back. Now we look for them secondhand, Someone else's, in the old songs, The slowly unfolding novels We never had time for. Hearts That taught themselves to fly; …overstuffed hearts, still leaking Downy secrets like feathers. We want someone to say, 'I give you my heart', meaning, 'Summer and winter', meaning 'All my time in the this world'…

Romantic music really stirs my soul. And, of course, I love Chinese music it makes me feel closer to home.

I cried on my 18th birthday. I thought 17 was such a nice age. You're young enough to get away with things, but you're old enough, too.

What defines someone's music taste is their teens and early 20s. It's that combination of your sexual awakening and the music of the time, it fixes you forever.

Memory is sweet. Even when it's painful, memory is sweet.

Which is this? This is persimmons, Father. Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk, the strength, the tense precision in the wrist. I painted them hundreds of times eye's closed. These I painted blind. Some things never leave a person: scent of hair of one you love, the texture of persimmons, in your palm, the ripe weight.

I mean, I kind of remember... I'm 36 now, so it's kind of hard for me to relate to what it was like when I was 25, or 24, but I do remember a period in time when that's how I defined who I was, by the music I listened to and the movies I went to.

I am deeply saddened by the death of my dear friend, Dudley Moore.

We stand around the tray. Just staring at it. Forever in awe. The chicken fried steak will be just as she remembered it. The biscuits will flake just like they used to. The pecan pie will be sweet and will take her back to those times she sat at the tables just outside the shack on a summer's day. And for once, she'll have fresh strawberry ice cream to go with it.

Our friendship had turned into a souvenir book filled with history and cool childhood-friend stories that we trotted out at parties. It was the envy of all our new acquaintances. It was like an old set of company china—carefully set out to be viewed and shown off, but no one actually eats off it. The friendship hadn't been functional for some time.

In the quiet of the kitchen my mind wanders. Fried chicken and potato salad. What's this man trying to re-create? A picnic? An outing? A meal his grandma made? A chess pie is old school. It's basically a pecan pie without the pecans. Syrupy sweet. I think about the memories he must have about this meal. Innocent. Pure. Happy.

I do not know what you are supposed to do with memories likes these. It feels wrong to want to forget. Perhaps this is why we write these things down, so we can move on.

We were young. Everyone was young in those days. That's the main complaint you hear from people who are getting old. You stop seeing young people. You begin to wonder if there are any left and whether there were only young people when you were young.

She didn't want to encourage me by asking questions. She didn't want me to go deeper into that other world. She worried she would lose her Matilda to Victorian England.

"I love Nunsmere," said the Literary Man from London. "It is a spot where faded lives are laid away in lavender."

Our happiness is made up of the things we miss.

There are people who, like houses, are beautiful in dilapidation.

she thought ray i'll never see ray again there was a time she looked into those green eyes and said i love you so long ago he'll never know i still do

She may be an old flame, but she still smokin'.

The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It's the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared.

We should have taken our chances back then, when we were young and beautiful and didn't even know it.

Thirty-five years of intimidating and dreary Islamic rule had created a rose-tinted view of the pre-revolutionary era. The arrests, the intimidation, the decadence of the elite, the horrors of SAVAK; it had all been forgotten, replaced by a revised, romantic version of the good old days. Among Iranians of a certain age and class, the swinging sixties and seventies are recalled with a poetic yearning nostalgia; an era of mini-skirts, freedom and hedonism.

Tant bien que mal, avant j'aimais la vie, parce qu'on l'avait en commun. Avant, j'aimais la vie, même sachant tout ce que je savais, car dans l'immensité du vide, il était là qui souriait. Aujourd'hui, je chéris un fantôme, un souvenir. Je pense encore à lui chaque jour, chaque minute, chaque seconde…

Old-fashioned desserts are deeply satisfying in a basic, no-nonsense way. No, they don't have eight garnishes, as in posh restaurants, and they aren't fancy or impressive, but they are good.