Quotes About Nostalgia

People say young love or love of the moment isn't real, but I think the only love is the first. Later we hear its fleeting recapitulations throughout our lives, brief echoes of the original theme in a work that increasingly becomes all development, the mechanical elaboration of a crab canon with too many parts.

It's fun telling you tall Texas tales. You always look like a little girl who's hearing Cinderella for the first time.

Her little treasures. Each item reminding her of someone or of something.

moonlight in Mayo" time.

Is that Rococo, Pascal?" Chrissie said as she stood by the missus's desk, peering into the nests of pigeonholes and cubbies. "Oh, don't touch there or you'll be shot," Pascal said, because it was where the missus kept her souvenirs, love letters from men before him, locks of hair, dried shamrock, and the words of songs that she rehearsed for her parties. Her family was musical

You are never out of my mind. I feel the cold more than I used to and this house is big

dreamy instrumental of an old song called Dancing On The Ceiling. The party was breaking up now

June, Nebraska

Notwithstanding the propensity of mankind to exalt the past, and to depreciate the present

On his childhood] You know, I would like to think that I was much more poetic and sensitive than anybody else, but I don't think it was true.

On his childhood] I'm sure mine was happier than I imagine in retrospect. I look back and think, Oh poetic me, but it simply was not true. I was out playing Kick-the-Can along with everyone else.

New Orleans is a city you must visit when you're young and foolish but return to when you're wiser and still searching for your dreams.

observe everything . . . ?trust nobody . . . ?despise your mother . . . ?effort is vulgar . . . ?things were better in the eighteenth century.

Talking of 'letting go of a lot of stuff,' his father handed the phrase back to Seamus, held by the corner like someone else's used handkerchief....

My head fills up with images of past gatherings there: pep rallies, award ceremonies, talent shows, speaker days, career days, holiday pageants, all things that Isabelle and I attended together, even while sitting in different parts of the auditorium with our own sets of friends.

I was assailed by memories of a life that wasn't mine anymore, but one in which I'd found the simplest and most lasting joys.

Every act of rebellion expresses a nostalgia for innocence and an appeal to the essence of being.

Thus, too, they came to know the incorrigible sorrow of all prisoners and exiles, which is to live in company with a memory that serves no purpose.

Now, I want to remember all this. My life has known days of innocence when I had only to close my eyes in order not to see.

Sunnybank Gray Dawn outlived all the Little People I have spoken of—except Tippy—in this book. Dawn was the last of the great Sunnybank collies. He died on May 30, 1929, leaving bitter heartaches behind him. Peace to his white soul!)

Perhaps the stout little heart quivered just a bit, if memory went back to his home kennel and to the rowdy throng of brothers and sisters and most of all, to the soft furry mother against whose side he had nestled every night since he was born. But if so, Lad was too valiant to show homesickness by so much as a whimper. And, assuredly, this House of Peace was infinitely better than the miserable crate wherein he had spent twenty horrible and jouncing and smelly and noisy hours.

Soon or late, every dog's master's memory becomes a graveyard; peopled by wistful little furry ghosts that creep back unbidden, at times, to a semblance of their olden lives.

Un buen recuerdo se borra y cuesta volver a sentir lo que sentiste en ese momento. Cuando uno se ha sentido muy como las huevas, el dolor vuelve fácil. Es eso, no más.

It might have seemed ridiculous to anyone watching, this white-haired maintenance worker, all alone, making like an airplane. But the running boy is inside every man, no matter how old he gets.