Quotes About Nostalgia

The radio was on and that was the first time I heard that song, the one I hate. Whenever I hear it all I can think of is that very day riding in the front seat with Lucy leaning against me and the smell of Juicy Fruit making me want to throw up. How can a song do that? Be like a net that catches a whole entire day, even a day whose guts you hate? You hear it and all of a sudden everything comes hanging back in front of you, all tangled up in that music.

She comes to naught, my dear one, she comes to naught, all that there business. What the hell, maybe twice in your life you have yourself a whore of a good time, and then you spend every night of the rest of your life trying to get that good time back. But she comes to naught.

You hardly know me. Why do you want me to come with you?" "Who knows? Perhaps you remind me just a bit of—" "Someone you used to know?" Alec interjected skeptically. "Someone I used to be .

He moaned her name against her lips, and then at her temple, and her closed eyes. It seemed to be all he could say, the only word he knew. She remembered how she'd once been incensed by his lazy, mocking use of that butchered form of Bernadette, and decided she had been a pathetic little idiot.

Nothing is as good when you have it as it is bad when it's gone.

Lenny's face was smiling, too. For a minute they were both ten years old. Time travel in real life.

Good-bye, ocean," said Alix. "This was the best time I ever had." "You always say that," said Jools. "It's always true," said Alix.

If'n Ya Wanna Go Back

Birthdays could be such a bummer when you were older than the country you lived in.

We are amazingly similar to the children of Israel. We spend half our lives looking back at our own Egypt with selective memories, longing to have our comfort zone back. Then we spend the other half wishing our days away for a dreamy future in our own promised land.

Memories are both our greatest treasures and our greatest sorrows.

your phone randomly sends those memory movies of what happened on this same day four years ago, it stops you from breathing.

For the memory of love is sweet, though the love itself were in vain. And what I have lost of pleasure, assuage what I find of pain.

Happiness and beauty are the worst things you can have in a life, because you never forget them. They go on and on ambushing you, presumably until you die.

When I was little, she thought, I wanted nothing except to stop travelling. I wanted time for each new thing, each new feeling, to be held properly in suspension until it could be joined by the next. Given the chance I could easily hold all those beautiful things together. I could be like a box in which they would be held new forever. Instead, everything aged and changed. People too.

I grew up watching Steven Spielberg and scary movies.

Missing is one of the true tragedies in life," he says. "That ache that nothing soothes. I thought time would soften it. It's supposed to, isn't it? But all these years later, I still long for what I had. What we all had. What is no more.

S)cents connects us to a past we can't always see, that seems lost but can so easily be conjured up and found.

I could still smell the hospital in my nose. It wasn't anything around me. It was her. I stopped breathing, but the smell was still there. I held my breath.

because nothing means as much until it has vanished.

When we were eating dinner, sitting on her bed side by side, she said to me, "This is fun." "It weirdly is," I said. "Maybe these are our salad days." "Huh?" "You know. Happy." "What's happy about a salad?" She shrugged. "Ranch," she said.

I miss that time. The cities back then, just after the forests died, were full of wonders, and you'd stumble on them--these princes of the air on common rooftops--the rivers that burst through the city streets so they ran like canals--the rabbits in parking garages--the deer foaling, nestled in Dumpsters like a Nativity.

De kunst is fraaier dan de werkelijkheid, maar beide leggen het af tegen de herinnering.

There was a chance for me to write one song for the section where Elvis sat in his black leather outfit and sang the old hits. At eight oclock the next morning I had written Memories.