Quotes About Nostalgia

Photography is an art of teleporting the past into the future.

The nice thing about being away from home is the feeling of excitement when returning to it!

There are some old photographs from where if you take anything out, even a chicken or a little bird, the magic will disappear.

There is always something melancholic about the empty chairs.

There is always something sad about the old photographs, it is because we know that people in the photos have gone forever.

There is always something sad about the trams, may be because they are like our lives: They appear from nothingness and disappear in the horizon of the crowds.

Time is so fast that all times are past times! When you look at a photo of the past, you must know that you are already in the album, someone else is looking at your photo! All times are past times!

We can't remember things from our future; remembering is merely the privilege and the beauty of the past!

You cannot separate the old furniture from the memories and the memories from the old furniture!

You either keep your childhood innocence or you rot!

You don't have a family doctor anymore like you did when you were a kid, who treated you throughout your life.

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All I can say is that in my case comedy was keeping the joy of a happy childhood going strong.

Larry Clinton and his vocalist, Bea Wain,

One day, Ryan thought bitterly as he watched the inbound steamer come lumbering up the Clyde as if it had declared war upon the ocean — one day the sky would be black with smoke and the sea just a constant din of engines. Gone forever would be the pavane of man, sail and wind, the elegant, pagan dance of wood and water, sweat and sinew. That day, Ryan would mourn.

It was no place, Ryan thought, to come home to. ???

And no, I am not capable of experiencing the present with the same sort of attention to detail. But once the present becomes the past I seem to have no problem attending to it obsessively. : )

We might miss the days of being unreachable.

As I walked through the fog, back into the future, I made a list of everything I wanted to bring back with me: the heartbreaking indigo of a Greengage night sky, the sugared almonds I'd eaten in the dining hall, the hawing sound Fancy made when she laughed, the smells of freshly cut clover, sponge cake, and loam, Martha's steady gaze, the swish of my borrowed skirt.

I'd never forget the smell of the orchard. It was imprinted on me like the scent of my mother's Aliage perfume. Overly sweet, musty, blossomy, leaves-turning, fruit-ripening.

Maybe memories should be left the way they are.

So, like I asked, what's with the nightie?" "It smells like what I always think mothers smell like," I tell him honestly, knowing I don't have to explain. He nods. "My mum has one just the same and you have no idea how disturbing it is that it's turning me on.

I still wake with your name on my lips every morning.

Because photos are testimony that someone did live. A reminder of past we may have loved or hated. A piece of our lives.