Quotes About Nostalgia

In eight years not a day has gone by when she hasn't thought of him. She misses him and she wants him back. I want my best friend back, she thinks, because without him nothing is good and nothing is right.

I still do think fondly about my days in Edendale and Mixville — the little-known corners of the city limits where the movies actually were born. Tucked into the once barren hills just west of Downtown were the studios of Western hero Tom Mix and fledgling cartoonist Walt Disney. Behind razor wire near Glendale Boulevard lingered a small stone monument to Comedy. Why? Because the ancient Selig Company had once made movies there.

She, like so many other patients, was looking backward to her childhood, instead of forward. Not surprisingly, her neglected marriage dissolved.

I've seen it before. Been here before. Played or managed here, six or seven times in six or seven years. Always a visitor, always away.

I pulled myself up on my elbows and lay on my belly staring down into hell. There below me in the basin of Hunslet Carr, just 500 yards beneath me, was my England on the morning of Sunday 15 December in the year of Our Lord 1974, looking a thousand years younger and none the better.

Because this is the first thing you have ever won and, like your first pair of boots, your first kiss and your first car, you'll never forget the hours of this day.

That was how long ago?

Mourning the passing of their youth made them jealous of young people and resentful of all the things young people do. Consequently, she and other old people inclined to remember themselves in childhood not as children but as miniature adults and their parents as patron saints of irreproachable stature. They did not recollect ever stepping outside the margins and viewed willfulness in modern children as a sign of emerging pathology.

Depression-era memories. They could easily recall events—and spoke of them in earnest detail—that occurred before electricity, telephones, and interstate highways.

The very best of high school still can't compete with the glory of any ordinary summer.

We passed upon the stair, we spoke of was and when Although I wasn't there, he said I was his friend Which came as some surprise I spoke into his eyes I thought you died alone, a long long time ago.

Whitman would be appalled in the 1850s when holiday celebrations began to be mass-oriented spectacles manipulated by professionals. One of his most famous poetic lines—" I celebrate myself"—can be taken, on one level, as an attempt to restore the idea of celebration, which was fast becoming coldly manipulative, to the personal and genuinely celebratory.

It's odd the things that people remember. Parents will arrange a birthday party, certain it will stick in your mind forever. You'll have a nice time, then two years later you'll be like, 'There was a pony there? Really? And a clown with one leg?'

Nonetheless: if only and if only and if only.

The room has Nic's smell—not the sweet childhood smell he once had, but a cloying odor of incense and marijuana, cigarettes and aftershave, possibly a trace of ammonia or formaldehyde, the residual odor of burning meth. Smells like teen spirit.

David Sosnowski

That the dying mind would take us back to the time when we felt most alive.

He'd discovered the devil's yellow cake in grade school during lunch. Everyone's mother but his had packed their little Americans off to school with these cellophane-wrapped loaves of gold. All Mo ever got was an apple he'd snap into with

It may be that places exist in order that memory itself has a home.

This is one of the great charms of Poirot's investigations, for they reveal a world where manners and morals are quite different from today. There are no overt and unnecessary sex scenes, no alcoholic, haunted detectives in Poirot's world. He lives in a simpler, some would say more human, era: a lost England, seen through the admiring eyes of this foreigner, this little Belgian detective.

All memory is prelude.

I used to have a silk dressing gown an uncle bought in Japan and when I came downstairs in it, my dad used to call me Davinia. There was never embarrassment about that kind of thing. My sister used to dress me up a lot. She thought I was a little doll.

As Jack listened at the top of the stairs, a tear welled in his eye, and rolled very slowly down his cheek. 8

Political loyalties can die hard, and there were probably those who pined after Absalom and told their children stories of the greatness that briefly existed, in the manner of old communists saddened by the demise of the world in which they were young.