Quotes About Nostalgia

For some Chicago expats, food is the medicine that blunts the pain of separation.

I know this is kind of corny, but we thought about renewing our vows again because I think my mom would really love it if we did that in Arkansas, where I came from.

The past is only the present become invisible and mute and because it is invisible and mute, its memoried glances and it's murmurs are infinitely precious. We are tomorrow's past.

My father was a soldier and my mother was a great mover. She once counted up how many places she had lived in during the first 25 years of her marriage and it came to 20.

Now was not the time to be sentimental. As a child, she'd been ridiculously sentimental about loss, about time passing.

This memory was both happy and sad: happy because it was so pleasant, and sad because it made Penelope think about how much she missed Swanburne--the girls, the teachers, Miss Mortimer. Or perhaps it was her own much younger self, that pint-sized person whom she could never be again, whom she missed. It was hard to say.

Nostalgia paints a smile on the stony face of the past.

Middle age went by while I was mourning for my lost youth.

Il doit rester quelques rêves d'enfant cachés sous mon oreiller, je tenterais de ne pas les écraser avec ma tête lourde de soucis d'adulte.

Je me souvenais encore du jour où elle m'avait déclaré sa flemme d'aimer.

Ella se había esmerado en que cupiese todo dentro de la caja. Por supuesto, no todo cabía. Porque aquellos años de vida en común no había forma de meterlos ni siquiera en un camión pesado.

Era la época en que todavía llevaba mi corazón hecho pedazos metidos en una caja de zapatos.

The past remains hidden in clouds of memory.

Cherry blossoms – lights of years past.

Many things of the past Are brought to my mind, As I stand in the garden Staring at a cherry tree.

Coming home at last At the end of the year I wept to find My old umbilical cord.

Even in Kyoto     longing for Kyoto            hototogisu

My chest got this weird feeling, like when you stare into the eyes of a little baby and the baby looks back up at you and you can feel how pure and innocent it is, so much that it makes your stomach feel empty - probably 'cause you realize you used to be pure like that, too, and now you're not.

Maybe it's living back at my parents' house, or perhaps going back to school, but somehow, surrounded by all these reminders from my past, in the middle of all the stuff I grew up with, with the people I grew up around, I think I'm finally beginning to understand what 'home' means.

At the risk of sounding like Uncle Rico from Napoleon Dynamite who can't let go of the past

Well, most grown-ups forget what it was like to be a kid. I vowed that I would never forget.

To talk about memories is to live them a little.

It is strange how close the past is, even when you imagine it to be so far away. Strange how it can just jump out of a sentence and hit you. Strange how every object or word can house a ghost.

No, she felt homesick, not for a place, but for a time. Maybe it wasn't homesickness at all. Maybe it was timesickness. She just missed those days when she was younger - seven, six, five, four years old - when she didn't know so much about the world. She missed, most of all, her mother.