Quotes About Nostalgia

The past, to repeat the words of Proust, is hidden in some material object. To wander about in the world, then, is also to wander about in ourselves.

Yes, it is possible that we do not grow up, that even as we grow old, we remain the children we always were. We remember ourselves as we were then, and we feel ourselves to be the same. We made ourselves into what we are now then, and we remain what we were, in spite of the years. We do not change for ourselves. Time makes us grow old, but we do not change.

His mother's name was Rose, and when he was big enough to tie his shoes and stop wetting the bed, he was going to marry her.

Desde então, sob o sol radioso, sob a tempestade, ao crepúsculo, sentimos amargamente a sua falta

That was sixty-five springs ago, and I can still see him sitting at his desk, scribbling away at his youthful memoirs as the light poured through the window, catching the dust particles that danced around him. If I concentrate hard enough, I can still hear the breath going in and out of his lungs, I can still hear the point of his pen scratching across the paper.

I think I would like that, knowing it had wound up in that room. Up on one of the shelves above my bed, for example, along with my old dolls and the ballerina costume I had when I was seven--one last thing to remember me by.

Mildred was capable of crying, but there they were weeping in front of him as they said good-bye to each other, both of them understanding that it could be months or years before they saw each other again, and Ferguson saw it as he stood below them in his five-year-old's body, looking up at his mother and his aunt, stunned by the excess of emotion pouring out of them, and the image traveled to a place so deep inside him that he never forgot it.

No es que no pensara más en él, sino que parecía interesarse más por su recuerdo que por continuar en contacto

A white linen tablecloth edged with pink roses -- Mama's favorite pattern -- flowed like a bride's train from sidewalk to curb to gutter. Papa stared at black boot marks crossing it like sins.

I missed my father driving us back from the Pomona State Fair, elbowing me awake, the Dodger postgame on the radio as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes just in time to see that sign, DICKENS-NEXT EXIT, and know I was home. Shit, I missed that sign. And what are cities really, besides signs and arbitrary boundaries?

How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that's so deeply a part of your being that you can't even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more. Perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless.

And it reminded me of when we used to come down, be staying for a few days in the hotel at Russell Square, the President Hotel. We were little kids, you know? We

The sharpest memory of our old-fashioned Christmas eve is my mother's hand making sure I was settled in bed.

Period costume films are fun to discover, but they're not relatable. It's more, 'Wow, that's cool - did it really look like that back then?' Whereas with a comedy, you're like, 'Yeah, that's me, that's my friends.' No matter what, I want people to relate.

The past doesn't change, does it?" "It's still there, same as it ever was. But we see it differently as we get older.

It must be terrible to be old, when you love someone who died young. They never change in your mind, and every day you see yourself grow away from that person you were when you loved and knew them. Until you are more of a shadow than they are, and the girl you were is altogether gone, more dead even than that young man on the battlefield.

Memories are important, like the bones of the mind. We build ourselves upon them, flesh and blood moulded around the pictures of what is past. I

It must be terrible to be old, when you love someone who died young. They never change in your mind, and every day you see yourself grow away from that person you were when you loved and knew them. Until

Memories are important, like the bones of the mind. We build ourselves upon them, flesh and blood moulded around the pictures of what is past.

I am almost dizzied by a sudden knowledge, as cold as snow down my spine; that I, too, will grow up one day like everyone else, and look back and miss the years gone by, and the things I could have done, should have done. And growing up is suddenly not something to be impatient for, not all jam and buns and doing as one pleases. It is precisely the opposite.

Some people want the past repeated and have an interest in making sure we don't remember it.

Esta tarde ví llover, Vi gente correr, y no estabas tu.

broiling Sunday afternoons in what I still call Joe Robbie Stadium.

party. I'm long gone from that scene.