Quotes About Nostalgia

Bron went to the door and leaned against the jamb, with a hand flat upon the wall inside. "O, Mama, my little one," she said, in a voice that should have been eased with many tears, "I am lonely without him. I put his boots and clothes ready every night. But they are there, still, in the morning. O, Mama, there is lonely I am.

Wyn we called her from the start, see. Nothing else to be done with a girl like that. Brown eyes she had, big, with eyelashes that touched her brows, and a smile in her voice, and looking to Davy as to a brother of God.

I wish I were a boy again-unquestioning, with no need to analyze the moment.

Staring down at the brook, I remembered a stream near Mammoth Lake. We'd parked the camper just above it and, all night, listened to it splashing across rocks and stones; a lovely sound.

he'd thought the past was dead. How long did it take for a past to die? She

He was getting disgusted at this increasing nostalgic preoccupation with the past. It was a weakness, he knew, a weakness he could scarcely afford if he intended to go on. And yet he kept discovering himself drifting into extensive meditation on aspects of the past. It was almost more than he could control, and it was making him furious with himself.

It was always August.

Someday you'll need to take down a worn-out volume and flip to that passage on the lower right-hand face, ten pages from the end, that fills you with such sweet and vicious pain.

And you, fallen Wendy, eviscerated by the eternal recurrence of it all, hear Peter snarl at you for growing guilty and big and old...

I remain one of those unreformable suckers who want to hear, just hear from time to time, even if the point of hearing has long since disappeared.

And yet, places remember what people forget.

All that's left to sell up here is nostalgia, those recent yesterdays when tomorrow seemed the answer to everything a human might ever want.

Everything about her felt familiar

Hollywood, without knowing it, has its most magnificent year ever. Never again will it come close to matching this year's product. Gone With the Wind takes the Oscar. But it has stiff competition from Goodbye Mr. Chips, Ninotchka, Stagecoach, The Wizard of Oz, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, Wuthering Heights, Dark Victory, and Juarez.

La nostra vita a U. non somigliava affatto ai nostri ricordi. U. era cambiata in tutto, fuorché nei particolari. (p. 225)

She stands with her nose in the bark, perversely intimate. She doses herself for a long time, like a hospice patient self-administering morphine. Chemicals rush down her windpipe, through the bloodstream to her body's provinces across the blood-brain barrier and into her thoughts. The smell grips her brain stem until she and the dead man are fishing side by side again, under the pine shade where the fish hide, in the soul's innermost national park.

I'd been hearing that tune for sixty years. Musical taste changes so little. The sound of late childhood plays at our funerals.

Musical taste changes so little. The sound of late childhood plays at our funerals.

The scent retrieves all kinds of things he once knew and reminds him of all those things he never will.

The sweetest sounds I'll ever hear are still inside my head.

Blue moon ... You saw me standing alone

This seems to have been St. Augustine's very notion of memory, not just nostalgia for some past moment, but connecting past, present, and future in one complete contemplative knowing.

People actually seemed to enjoy recalling that on a Saturday afternoon forty years ago Empire Avenue was bustling with people and cars and commerce, whereas now, of course, you could strafe it with automatic weapons and not harm a soul.

Most Americans want it to be 1959, with the addition of cappuccino and cable TV.