Quotes About Nostalgia

Man of Tomorrow," my ass. Try "Man of the nineteen-fifties!

If only she could be so oblivious again, to feel such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter.

Some say it rings by its own will, that if one arrives in Venice to its great, noble clanging, it is proof of one's Venetian soul, proof the old bell remembers one from some other time.

sotto le cenere, beans in a flask braised under ash. Now he's pouring the cooled, herb-scented beans from all the flasks into a huge white bowl, drizzling on more oil and tossing them. When everyone is seated he and his wife will carry the bowl together, passing the creamy-fleshed beans table to table, person to person, just like his grandparents used to do.

If no one goes to gravesides anymore, if you won't visit me there no more, I might as well have my ashes in a jam jar and be more mobile.

I can still taste that first beer I bought with my own paycheck.

You ever feel like home is the one place you can't go back to? It's like you promise yourself when you got out of bed and combed your hair that this evening, when I get back I'll be a different woman in a new place. And now you can't go back because the house expects something from you.

You ever feel like home is the one place you can't go back to? It's like you promise yourself when you got out of bed and combed your hair that this evening, when I get back I'll be a different woman in a new place. And now you can't go back because the house expects something from you.

I never miss the country not even once. I hate nostalgia. Nostalgia is not memory and my memory is too damn good for it.

Then I wondered if everybody has that person that haunts them, the one that got away.

We also cling to the past as a way of contrasting it with the present—usually to highlight something positive about ourselves at the expense of someone else. Do you ever find yourself beginning a long self-serving story with the phrase, "When I was your age . . ."?

To friends, she sent bouquets, and to some of her numerous correspondents—over one thousand of her letters have been found—pressed flowers.

I wait every year for summer, and it is usually good, but it is never as good as that summer I am always waiting for.

Looking at the past is like lolling in a rocking chair. It is so relaxing and you can rock back and forth on the porch, and never go forward.

An idyllic childhood is probably illusion.

Old willows trailed veils of wet leaves across his path. Moss crawled up the headstones. The place was otherwise deserted.

Tom says to Richard: You asked what I missed about the job. And that's it. But his tone had changed. The vanished fame, the lost acclaim, the old success.

How could I lose sight of him so easily? He was such a dear, good man. What could I have been thinking? I got up to get dressed for work and stopped to kiss him like I meant it, another thing that I don't do enough. He slapped my butt as I left the kitchen to get ready for the day. I sang off-key in the shower.

It is a bittersweet joy, but real nonetheless—the way our lost loves are forever in our hearts and minds. They are, in fact, constant to our consciousness in a way they couldn't be when they were alive, because then we depended on their comings and goings—the highs and lows of their being with us, the vagaries of presence and convenience. But

To be able to look back upon one's past life with satisfaction is to live twice.

You get the feeling that childhood does not last as long as it used to. Innocence gets harder to hold on to as the world gets older, as it accumulates more experience, more mileage and more blood on the tracks.

When the past is forgotten, the present is unforgettable

He loved the smell and feel of old books. To hold them was to touch the past.

I was probably cool around the end of 2002.