Quotes About Nostalgia

When it comes to Clare, sometimes, the past isn't past. The past can get as present as any present ever was, so near that I feel its breath.

I have lost things I will never stop missing.

Besides, some things just can't make the leap from past to present, and that hat was not a leaper.

A picture doesn't bring someone to life. A picture is a death of the moment when the picture is taken. Whenever you look at a picture, time dies again.

Chocolate is the first luxury. It has so many things wrapped up in it: Deliciusness in the moment, childhood memories, and that grin-inducing feeling of getting a reward for being good.

First love is never forgotten,' she went on. 'It's the only love that remains fresh and potent for a lifetime. It's the truest and most innocent of loves, exactly because it can never come to fruition. Do you understand what I mean?' 'Not exactly.' 'It never grows old; you see? It's as fleeting as the morning dew, yet it clings to us all our lives.

When You Are Old' by W. B. Yeats, which appeared in 1892.

As for the shop there is a breed of Homo sapiens that will walk inside, take a deep breath, and say, 'Mmm, I just love the smell of old books.' They are to be got rid of as quickly as possible, with whatever violence it takes. I have heard the line a thousand times and never, never have I sold a book to any one of those people.

Sometimes remembering means to live a moment in the past again, and in that way survive the present.

Nostalgic memory is a sudden encounter with the thingness of the thing that has been forgotten, not the continuous desire for possessions, whether past, present, or future.

It's often the material things that provide the essence of memory.

A mark was on him from the day's delight, so that all his life, when April was a thin green and the flavor of rain was on his tongue, an old wound would throb and a nostalgia would fill him for something he could not quite remember.

Somewhere beyond the sink-hole, past the magnolia, under the live oaks, a boy and a yearling ran side by side, and were gone forever.

Sometimes, when I read a book, I miss the characters when I finish it. When I truly love a book, I read it slowly because I want to remain with those characters. I've experienced the same thing with TV shows and movies. There's no real difference between that and getting attached to a boy from your dreams.

Every Anglophile has his own private England which is, of course, unrecognizable to the English.

The heart is a repository of vanished things:

I'm annoyed by the lack of smoking on TV as well. It's terrible. It's funny seeing old interviewers lighting up, the likes of Russell Harty pulling on a Three Castles or a State Express or a Churchman Full Strength or a Passing Cloud. I think it's a shame that we don't get to see this any more. We should have more ashtrays on morning TV and presenters wheezing.

We're living in a re-issue world, filching from the past like magpies with a Tardis.

One thing that is almost always said to me is, I grew up with you. They are meeting me and feel that they actually grew up with me. I was with them during their play hours and thinking hours. I was a part of their childhoods. That's one of the most amazing things.

There are times in every life when the past acquires a particular resonance, when we grow sensitive to sounds and voices normally beyond the range of hearing. The past shades into present always and everywhere, but only rarely do we acknowledge the process; only rarely does some trigger force us to recognize ourselves as citizens of that frontier.

The past is another country, but the Seventies is another planet.

How those fires burned that are no longer, how the weather worsened, how the shadow of the seagull vanished without a trace. Was it the end of a season, the end of a life? Was it so long ago it seems it might never have been? What is it in us that lives in the past and longs for the future, or lives in the future and longs for the past? (from "No Words Can Describe It")

When at last he took off his glasses, the sun was setting, casting the lake in coppers and golds. He wiped away tears and put his glasses back on. Then he looked over, gave me a sad, sweet smile, and put his palm across his heart. "Forgive an old man his memories," Pino said. "Some loves never die.

Forgive an old man his memories," Pino said. "Some loves never die.