Quotes About Nostalgia

LEPRECHAUN GOLD; FLOOR PLANS FOR GINGERBREAD HOUSES; TALKING FISH; GHOSTS OF CHRISTMAS PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE; TIK-TOK MEN;

it was like '65 or '68 again

she would have walked all the way up to East Sixty-Third Street, and probably 163rd Street, if it meant pouring even more into this memory that wasn't a memory.

He hated confronting those lost moments, being presented with some detail from his past and having to look on it like a stranger. It made his life feel like a made-up thing. A net full of holes.

I am delighted to be back home in Galway, the place I first came to as a 19-year-old in 1960. It's here where my heart is and will forever be.

Remembering the fatherless feeling, the longing to be picked up and tossed into the air and caught with a laugh, and carried on a shoulder ride as his father-protector strode fearless through the world.

Fear is a memory of better times. Fear is a dream.

If you have never wept bitter tears because a wonderful story has come to an end and you must take your leave of the characters with whom you have shared so many adventures, whom you have loved and admired, for whom you have hoped and feared, and without whose company life seems empty and meaningless. If such things have not been part of your own experience, you probably won't understand what Bastian did next.

President Donald Trump chose "Make America Great Again" as his 2016 campaign slogan. It sounded the call to white America to return to simpler, better days. But the golden age of the past is a fiction, a projection of nostalgia that selects what is most comforting to remember. It summons a past that was not great for all; in fact, it is a past that was not great at all, not with racism and sexism clouding the culture.

On the collector card that came with chocolate frogs

Forget-me-not blue

Privet Drive

A photo album of his parents

That's how it is in Faulkner's South: a land where the dead past walks, not was but is, and burning always in one's mind.

I think Vietnam was what we had instead of happy childhoods.

16. Love will tear us apart (Joy Division) 15. Ain't no sunshine (Bill Withers) 14. Sound of silence (Simon and Garfunkel) 13. My way (Frank Sinatra) 12. All by myself (Eric Carmen) 11. Yesterday (The Beatles) 10. Without you (Harry Nilsson) 9. Seasons in the sun (Terry Jacks) 8. Fix You (Coldplay) 7. My heart will go on (Celine Dion) 6. Hallelujah (Leonard Cohen/Alexandra Burke/Jeff Buckley) 5. Nothing compares 2 U (Prince/Sinead O'Connor) 4. I will always love you (Whitney Houston)

Nostalgia n-are insa nici in clin, nici in maneca cu estetica, nu e nici macar legata de amintirile fericite; ai nostalgia unui anume loc pentru ca pur si simplu ai trait acolo, bine sau rau nici nu conteaza, trecutul e intotdeauna frumos, ca si viitor de altfel, doar prezentul doare, doar prezentul pe care il tarasti dupa tine ca pe un butoi mustind de suferinta, intre doua nesfarsiri de blanda fericire.

There is no word for feeling nostalgic about the future, but that's what a parent's tears often are, a nostalgia for something that has not yet occurred. They are the pain of hope, the helplessness of hope, and finally, the surrender to hope.

There were times when I had great times with my brothers, pillow fights and things, but I was, used to always cry from loneliness.

The older I got the more I appreciated the role of travel as a stimulus to memories, and the way in which journeys even to new places were somehow always awakening memories of places seen in an ever-receding past.

I can tell you this: there will be other girls, other disasters. And there will be nights to come, his life mostly behind him, when he will long to hurt like that again.

He could not have explained the intensity of his attraction to {her}, that blissful ache that welled up in his chest at the sight of her barefooting across the dock, the feeling a distant cousin of nostalgia, as if he'd already won and loved and lost her.

As I walked down the extremely narrow hall of my not-so-mobile home, passing over the pale yellow linoleum curling up so that it no longer reached the thin blond paneling of either wall, I remembered the plush two-story brick home Susan and I had shared in North Atlanta. It was nice. Very nice. But this impoverished place and the fringe existence I was now living here felt more like home.

Hunt had thought of the name while watching his children playing with one of the hot novelties of the period, the Wham-O company's high-bouncing Super Ball.