Quotes About Nostalgia

If I just concentrate I can walk into memory's store and find the right shelf with the right film and disappear into it....

On that island was a lighthouse I had seen every single summer of my entire life and my mother, too, had seen it her entire life, and I wondered how it might affect your way of thinking, if you always had a lighthouse in the corner of your eye.

And they used to have cross burnin's a lot more and family picnics and softball games and all such,' said Donald. 'I remember eatin' cake next to that glowing cross. I loved my mama's cake.' 'Yeah,' several voiced their agreement. 'We don't do nothin' now,' a man complained. 'I don't even know where my hood is. I don't even own a rope.

It's almost noon, Trig," I said. "We've nearly run out of morning. A sad thought, morning being my favorite part of the day. My least favorite part of the day is from 2:34 to 4:56 in the afternoon.

Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory— Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose-leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heap'd for the beloved's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.

Like the ghost of a dear friend dead Is Time long past. A tone which is now forever fled, A hope which is now forever past, A love so sweet it could not last, Was Time long past. There were sweet dreams in the night Of Time long past: And, was it sadness or delight, Each day a shadow onward cast Which made us wish it yet might last - That Time long past

To express nostalgia for a childhood we no longer share is to deny the actual significance and humanity of children.

No one mentions that now, and I suppose no one is inclined to bring it up, particularly not my father, who in other matters loves those things most that he can no longer touch or see, things washed clean of flaws and ambiguity by the years he has held them in his memory, reshaping them as he brings them out, again and again, telling his stories until finally the stories, and the things in them, are as perfect and sharp as the edge of the knife he keeps in his pocket.

He looked at her for a long moment, as if remembering unfinished conversations, and then went back to place some damp, slow-burning turf on the fire.

There he is, three days after his fifth birthday, standing barefoot upon wet summer grass. He is staring at the house where he lives: the great good Irish place of whitewashed walls, long and low, with a dark slate roof glistening in the morning drizzle. Standing there, he knows it will turn pale blue when the sun appears to work its magic.

You lived in the present, but that present always contained a past, some image of a ruined paradise.

The only way to fight nostalgia is to listen to somebody else's nostalgia

Just like that. Gone forever. They will not grow old together. They will never live on a beach by the sea, their hair turned white, dancing in a living room to Billie Holiday or Nat Cole. They will not enter a New York club at midnight and show the poor hip-hop fools how to dance. They will not chuckle together over the endless folly of the world, its vanities and stupid ambitions. They will not hug each other in any chilly New York dawn. Oh, Mary Lou. My baby. My love.

The painting was food. He wanted to caress it, hold it in his hands, lick its glazed surface, plunge into it, dive into the Florentine light. Years vanished, decades were erased, and he was again the boy who had come here to the feast of art.

Is it possible to have some kind of genetic memory of a place where you've never lived, but your ancestors have? Or am I just a sentimental fool, my judgement fuddled by nostalgia, Guinness, and the romance of the diaspora?

I don't really know any other musicians like me. I grew up backstage with my dad who played in a post-war dance band, so I always feel at home at a venue.

It's only teenage wasteland.

The first summer after the end of the war was beautiful.

I would have no need for the Memory Of Things past if those which were Present were more agreeable

El pasado siempre se ve mejor cuando uno lo recuerda, de lo que le pareció en su momento. Y el presente jamás se ve tan bueno como parecerá en el futuro. Si uno pasa demasiado tiempo reviviendo viejas alegrías, llega a ser deprimente. Se llega a pensar que jamás volverá a vivir tan bien.

Am Mann blieb der alte Fuß lange im Bild läuten, um neun stellte das Fotoalbum, der Fuß fror auf und blätterte sich aus dem Schrank, damit er nicht an den Morgen schaute.

I cannot, in my old age, live off pieces of my youth.

When these people, my mother and people like her, came out here it was like leaving a reality; leaving a planet; turning your back. I guess we don't appreciate it was such a big deal that they may never come back, never see their family again. – John Savi?

An Italian migrant once told me that … and he said, 'To be a migrant is both a curse and a blessing, because you will always hang between two countries.' This is a very good country, I quite enjoy it, it's fine, but I miss my country [Holland]. But I can't go back anymore my country's not my country anymore. Tinie Nieuwenhoven's, Dutch