Quotes About Nostalgia

There were a series of closing kisses, goodbye kisses, kisses placed like lids on boxes—then the lid would pop off and need to be replaced. There, this is the final kiss—no, this is the final kiss. This one is, it really is. And now I'm just kissing that kiss good night.

They were sparkling with the old love, the greatest love of my lifetime. And they were triumphant.

He drank the cotton-candy milk from the day at the pier. The last batch was from the morning she left and this milk was full of plans I didn't know about. When he finished that bottle she was really gone, every last drop of her.

Where did they go, those things we did?

Tom looked across the patio, our eyes met, and for a split second I remembered my drunken nineteen-year-old face pressed against his chest at a party, his lips resting on the top of my head, murmuring, You know I wish I could.

And our very few intimacies were simply discontinued. Where did they go, those things we did? Were they recycled?

Perhaps all we want from reading is to return to that age when we could hold a book and cry, to that time between childhood and adolescence, the sweetest era of our lives.

În curtea interioar? ce ne strângea pur È™i simplu la umeri ca o hain? prea strâmt?, vântul negru È™i cald ne învelea într-un fel de tristeÈ›e creol?, parc? venit? din amintiri foarte vechi.

No pretendo explicar aquí por qué la amé, un asunto inexplicable como todo lo natural. Tampoco quiero siquiera relatar aquí qué nos sucedió hace diez (¿tal vez once o doce?) días. Pienso tan solo en convocar a mi pasado, o tal vez en remodelar el pasado, o en inventarlo, o en hacer todo a la vez, pues me interesa tan solo tener un pasado, una serie de imágenes que sean o que sustituyan el caos en que me muevo ahora.

Misschien lezen we alleen maar om terug te keren naar de leeftijd toen we nog konden huilen met een boek in de armen, toentertijd, tussen kinderjaren en puberteit, in de bekoorlijke schijnwerper van ons leven.

Por aquel entonces, las habitaciones eran grandes como naves y en su interior daban vueltas dos personas gigantes que, no se sabe por qué, se ocupaban de mí: mi madre y mi padre.

In the mind, in the heart, I was always home. I always imagined, really, going back home.

Masjid turns on the radio, and Rabindra Sangeet adds the perfect soundtrack to the scene: "Por ke korile nikot bondhu"—you bring the distant near. One of Baba's favorites.

I don't know what it is about food your mother makes for you, especially when it's something that anyone can make - pancakes, meat loaf, tuna salad - but it carries a certain taste of memory.

Lastly, it should be noted that the nostalgia which the reading public maintains for my former Baker Street address does not exist in me. I no longer crave the bustle of London streets, nor do I miss navigating the tangled mires created by the criminally disposed.

The mellow sweetness of pumpkin pie off a prison spoon is something you will never forget.

Even now, years later, that day stood out in his memory like a shining piece of colored glass in a sea of mud.

One Christmas my father kept our tree up till March. He hated to see it go. I loved that.

I have nothing but admiration for myself as a youngster; I was a force to be reckoned with then, a much finer specimen than I am now. As kids, we had little meat on our bones; we were sticklike figures with big rounded bellies, the skin stretched so taut it was nearly transparent — you could just about see our intestines twist and coil on the other side. Our necks were so long and thin it was a miracle they could support our heavy heads.

Creí que lo habrías olvidado. -Imposible-dije-. De los cincuenta en adelante, uno no tiene memoria para las cosas recientes, pero las del pasado las recuerda cada vez mejor. -A mí también me pasa-dijo ella-. Hasta sueño con las cosas de entonces.

Run On" started with an ostinato piano part, and I passed the exit for the Holiday Inn where Robert Downey Jr. and his family had lived when they were moving out of Darien. Robert Downey Jr. had been my best friend in third grade. We'd bonded because we were both neurotic eight-year-olds, and his parents and my mom were the only adults in Darien who smoked pot.

We are all refugees from our childhoods. And so we turn, among other things, to stories. To write a story, to read a story, is to be a refugee from the state of refugees. Writers and readers seek a solution to the problem that time passes, that those who have gone are gone and those who will go, which is to say every one of us, will go. For there was a moment when anything was possible. And there will be a moment when nothing is possible. But in between we can create.

And so their memories took on potential, which is of course how our greatest nostalgias are born.

during transitions to democracy, nations often undergo political convulsions that make them hard to govern, thus feeding nostalgia for their old authoritarian order.