Quotes About Nostalgia

whatever happened to the nice old guy with the purple bandana?

That probably means something to someone from the last century. The HAL reference also. The execs are always trying to throw in callbacks to their latest blockbuster remakes of once-great movies that have been rebooted to death.

Those days are gone, and good fucking riddance to them; unhappiness really meant something back then. Now it's just a drag, like a cold or having no money. If you really wanted to mess me up, you should have got to me earlier.

Sentimental music has this great way of taking you back somewhere at the same time that it takes you forward, so you feel nostagic and hopeful all at the same time.

I'm very good at the past. It's the present I can't understand.

Those days are gone, and good fucking riddance to them; unhappiness really meant something back then. Now it's just a drag, like a cold or having no money. If you really wanted to mess me up, you should have got to me earlier.

I believe, do you know, we never stop being what we were, young. We don't shed the young self, we just put on other skins, one cover after another, but somewhere in us is still the self we were before we fell, before we started covering ourselves. And all the rest of our lives, we're trying to go back, we're looking for it, what we lost.

Looking back on my childhood now, there's a sort of glow to my reminiscences. It's like my memory has blocked out most of the bad stuff.

Looking back on my childhood now, there's a sort of glow to my reminiscences. It's like my memory has blocked out most of the bad stuff. I just remember all those glorious sunny days and good times. You need to have good memories from your past. You never know when you're going to have to depend on those memories just to see you through a bad patch in your adult life.

I went to watch my father at Silverstone in the early 1950s, and I've still got the car he was in.

Listening back to 'Arnold Layne' now, and other songs from the same phase, I notice that I do not find myself cringing. I am definitely not embarrassed by our juvenilia. It all sounds pretty professional, even though it would have been recorded relatively quickly. With a limited number of tracks, you had to make decisions early on about which instrument would go on which track and then you mixed down. But the music genuinely doesn't seem to have suffered.

I still find the most affecting moment on the whole record is where the last notes fade out and Rick introduces a wistful rubato line, on high notes, from 'See Emily Play'.

I went to see his show at Earls Court, and found the experience had an astonishingly depressing effect on me. The first half was made up of Floyd numbers and gave me the impression of being a (rather elderly) Peter Pan at the nursery window – that was my part being played by someone else. In retrospect this one event probably had as much to do in galvanising me as anything else. I realised I could not quite so easily let go and watch the train roll on without me.

Both of these were played on the family's new state-of-the-art gramophone that was electric and connected to a device resembling a cross between the cabinets made in the days of Louis XIV and a Rolls-Royce dashboard.

Rick played trumpet as a schoolboy, and always maintained that he played the piano before he could walk… but would then add that he didn't walk until he was ten.

Storm also recalls that Syd adored the Beatles, at a time when most of his friends preferred the Stones.

You listen to a piece of music and it will remind you of something - it might make you happy, it might make you sad, but it is very emotive. And I think that Duran Duran have always understood that.

The older you get, the more you live with ghosts.

What was it like to be in love – and then to have that love taken away? Was it like losing a TARDIS? Was it like losing a friend?

missed that place. Lavish, finely decorated

When I was a kid I had this funny blonde hair and everyone called me 'Chick' because I looked like Tweety Bird.

They'd left behind their stone houses in Caer Luel and beautiful white fountains, their red-tile roofs and straight roads, their perfectly round red bowls with pictures of dogs hunting deer around the rim, their exact corners and glass cups. And now the marble statues had lost their paint and stood melancholy white streaked with moss; tiles had blown off in storms and been patched with reed; men built fire sands directly on the cracked and broken remnants of once-brilliant mosaics.

She imagined Begu's mother, Enynny and Ennynny's mother, and her mother before her, back into memory, sitting here by the ferns drinking the cold, minty water, and talking quietly in British. So many. All gone into the mist. She felt a twist inside, a longing for a family and home that never was.

Hild had forgotten. She was twelve years old.