Quotes About Nostalgia

In the summer, we create memories of hot adventures so that those memories can warm-up the deep frozen winter.

Facebook just sounds like a drag, in my day seeing pictures of peoples vacations was considered a punishment

I felt no passion, no jealousy, no nostalgia. I was hollow, clear-headed, clean, and as emotionless as an aluminum pot.

Kui tahes surnud vana armastus ka ei oleks, uusi armsamaid haavab see ikka.

Cuesta comprender que ya no exista quien ha existido.

lo más intolerable es que se convierta en pasado quien uno recuerda como futuro').

Es intolerable que las personas que conocemos se conviertan en pasado. Lo más intolerable es que se convierta en pasado quien uno recuerda como futuro.

I didn't get my first car until I was 22. It was a BMW 1602 and now I've got it back I'm waiting to restore it.

It's not a case of 'look at me in my car' it's more, 'look at the car'. I like the idea of other people enjoying them, because everything has become a bit faceless and nobody likes the motor car any more.

I'd like to have the kind of house someday where a carousel horse wouldn't be out of place in the living room.

But what you are left with is a premonition of the way your life will fade behind you, like a book you have read too quickly, leaving a dwindling trail of images and emotions, until all you can remember is a name.

They don't want to be grown-ups. They're so rich they don't think they have to get old. They lived down here when they were twenty-three and they want to relive their bohemian days, except not crammed into a tiny apartment with roommates who never flush the toilet. I didn't have bohemian days. I worked.

and he realized that he missed the old days of sailing, the ship almost willowy and hesitant, responsive to winds and weathers - not this hard, unthinking, mechanical drive toward a goal or destinations, so typical of the age itself.

From inside our turn-of-the-century Italianate home, I watched them standing out on the sidewalk or peering from their car windows. I always wondered what they were looking for. Did they imagine life in the old homes was like a life they dreamed of and didn't have? Did they think the traces of fading graciousness and entitlement that emanated from the aging plaster and hardwood floors endowed the current occupants with lives that were more meaningful than their own?

The bones came jumbled together from the kitchen... there was no way of telling my parents from my Brothers and Sisters. I put them all in the same urn. Sometimes, late at night, I hold them in my hands and cry.

To be sure, late that afternoon, Union soldiers drifted into the Confederate camp, and soon knots of blue- and gray-clad men dotted the hills around Appomattox Court House; bullets were indeed replaced by backslaps, the rebel yell with a hearty Southern drawl, war fervor with the first hints of war nostalgia, unbridled hatred with nascent relief, and, by the next day, West Point mini-reunions were even breaking out at the McLean farmhouse. But

I want to be six years old again - just for a day. It's not that things were so much better back then. They sucked. But I was the kind of kid who knew how to laugh about it all. That's what I want. I want to laugh.

My mom was a big 'Smurfs' fan, so she would force me to watch every Saturday morning. I had no choice in the matter. I would jump downstairs on Saturday morning, 'Hurray, cartoons!' and she would say, 'Smurfs! That's what you're watching.'

I was a big fan of 'The Smurfs' growing up, even though by default - my mom used to force me to watch because she was a 'Smurfs' fan.

Gene Autry riding into coral skyline while the cacti stand up ancient and timeless

Fiction is not imagination. It is what anticipates imagination by giving it the form of reality. This is quite opposite to our own natural tendency which is to anticipate reality by imagining it, or to flee from it by idealizing it. That is why we shall never inhabit true fiction; we are condemned to the imaginary and nostalgia for the future.

When the real is no longer what it was, nostalgia assumes its full meaning.

Postmodernity is said to be a culture of fragmentary sensations, eclectic nostalgia, disposable simulacra, and promiscuous superficiality, in which the traditionally valued qualities of depth, coherence, meaning, originality, and authenticity are evacuated or dissolved amid the random swirl of empty signals.

At all costs the true world of childhood must prevail, must be restored; that world whose momentous, heroic, mysterious quality is fed on airy nothings, whose substance is so ill-fitted to withstand the brutal touch of adult inquisition.