Quotes About Nostalgia

McQueen got up with Grannie on one side of the jaunting-car

My favorite toy growing up was Polly Pocket. But one gift that I wanted though never received for Christmas was a pair of trampoline moon shoes. You strap them to your feet and they have springs on them, and you can just jump around!

Everything I buy is vintage and smells funny. Maybe that's why I don't have a boyfriend.

After all, that was our scandalous past to relive; our delightful secret to keep. With Maverick

The first years of my life are of no imprtance. At the age of nine, I was packed off to a preparatory school in the South of England, and for the next four years led the usual life of a preparatory-school boy. I indulged in midnight feasts and was periodically beaten.

He felt, sometimes, like the keeper of memories-the one who had to facilitate that invisible transition between the way it used to be and the way it would be from now on.

What became of all those lost balloons: they were the loves that slipped out of our fists; the blank eyes that rose in every night sky.

As a kid, his favorite toy had been a snow globe, that held a small town of gingerbread buildings and peppermint streets. He'd wanted so badly to live there that one day he'd smashed the glass ball - only to find out that the houses were made of plaster, the candy stripes painted on.

the arms of his swim team sweatshirt still wrapped around the pillow on the bed - Em had said it smelled of him.

If only you could keep them that way: cast in amber, never growing up

There are pictures of me, too, but not many. I go from infant to about ten years old in one fell swoop. Maybe it's because I was the third child, and they were sick and tired of keeping a catalog of life. Maybe it's because they forgot. It's nobody's fault, and it's not a big deal, but it's a little depressing all the same. A photo says, You were happy, and I wanted to catch that. A photo says, You were so important to me that i put down everything else to come watch.

You know, that was what we missed most. Not our beds, not our homes, not even our mothers. We would talk about food.

What is a parent, really, but somebody who picks up the things a child leaves behind - a trail made of stripped off clothing, orphaned shoes, tiny bright plastic game pieces, and nostalgia - and who hands back each of these when its needed?

he glanced at the stranger in the seat beside him and tried to remember when she used to be his daughter.

A song can last long after the events and people in it are dust and dreams and gone.

This is what I like about photographs. They're proof that once, even if just for a heartbeat, everything was perfect.

How come people don't do things like that nowadays? You grope around in the back of a sedan in high school and you think you're in love. Nobody gets swept off their feet anymore.

My mother nods toward Violet and her little friend, sprinkling grass over their mud pies. "This has been going on so much longer than either of us, Kennedy. From where you stepped in, in your life, it looks like we've got miles to go. But me?" She smiles in the direction of the girls. "I look at that, and I guess I'm amazed at how far we've come." —

She isn't the girl who used to live next door, hasn't been for years. Back then she had freckles and jeans with holes at the knees and a ponytail yanked so tight it made her eyes pull at the corners. Now she wears pantyhose and tailored suits; she has had the same short bob hairstyle for five years. But when Patrick gets close enough, she still smells like childhood to him.

I love the way he smelled whenever his head dipped close to hear what I was saying—like the sun striking th cheek of a tomato, or soap drying in the hood of a car. I loved the way his hand felt on my spine. I loved.

Would you rather spend the rest of your life thinking about us, and remembering it as something totally perfect, or would it be better to let it get all screwed up and have that as your memory?

When we were little, Eric and Fitz and I invented a language. I've forgotten most of it, with the exception of a few words: valyango, which meant pirate; palapala, which meant rain; and ruskifer, which had no translation to English but described the dimpled bottom of a woven basket, all the reeds coming together to form one joint spot, and that we sometimes used to explain our friendship.

Lacy took the box she'd brought up from the basement and placed each item inside. Here was the crime scene: look at what was left behind and try to re-create the boy.

It felt like the stamp of a passport when you reached your own country, and realized that the only reason you'd traveled was to remember the feeling of home.