Quotes About Nostalgia

Memory is a haunting.

If you want to write a novel about our world now, you'd better write science fiction, or you will be doing some kind of inadvertent nostalgia piece; you will lack depth, miss the point, and remain confused.

The past is always gone," Wahram said. "Whether the place is still there or not.

Oh God, Coyote said, and rolled onto his side, propping his head up on one hand. It's hard to remember something that long ago. It's almost like an epic poem I memorized once, and can barely recite anymore.

Moscow, Baikonur, the view from Novy Mir—none of it. Her mother's face across the kitchen

It's not as if she needs the torch anymore, the welcome beacon to immigrants having been long since snuffed out. Probably

Anytime people do something consciously for the last time, Samuel Johnson is reported to have remarked, they feel sad.

It's like being Calvin and watching Hobbes turn back into a stuffed doll.

It is a long time ago. So many lives ago--I get them all confused, don't you?

She often felt a nostalgia for the present, aware that her life was passing by faster than she could properly take it in. She lived it, she felt it; she had given nothing to age, she still wanted everything; but she could not make it whole or coherent.

Dios bendiga los tiempos antiguos, en que existían cosas raras...!

Engang kom han med skjorten åpen og han var tykt lodden på brystet. Det er som en eng å lægge sig i! tænkte jeg, for jeg var så ung. Jeg kysset ham nogen ganger, det er på det jeg vet at jeg aldrig har oplevet noget lignende.

karve i stompen og knust kandis på var en hittil ukjendt delikatesse for ham, han vilde be sin mor om å indføre den hjemme.

Husket han i sommer da han var skipper og hun skulde koke middag til ham? Han var så fin at han måtte drikke vand av et glas.

den brystsyke herremand foretrak denne gamle sæterhytte. Her satte han sig på træstolen og fik melk av en bolle eller rømmekolle av et trækjørel, det smakte av barndom og oprindelighet, det smakte endog damen som var fra byen og skrev på skrivemaskine og kunde fransk.

I remembered her father, the old man from another world, the man with mittens, who had to be spoon-fed on porridge because he was ninety, who smelled like an unburied corpse.

The elderly remember bygone days and dates, they have a wonderful way of hoarding in their heads all manner of trifles as if they were valuable, as if they might one day stand them in good stead.

Jeg elsker tre ting, sier jeg så. Jeg elsker en kjærlighetsdrøm jeg hadde engang, jeg elsker dig og jeg elsker denne plet jord. - Og hvad elsker du mest? - Drømmen.

Det sted man er fra er alltid pent, det er fedrelandsfølelsen i det små, hjemmefølelsen. ("Bonde", 1918)

That's the thing about home, bébé. It'll always be there waiting for you.

Eight-six-seven-five-three-oh-nine—

I'd trade all my tomorrows for one single yesterday.

I adore my mother, but I fear for her. She seems helpless, caught in the vortex of my father's dark moods and unpredictable behavior. I try never to displease her. I love the scent of Juicy Fruit gum on her breath and the hint of Joy perfume on her neck, the crisp crinkle of her hair stiff with aerosol spray and the chipped pink polish on her nails.

She flipped through them again, quickly enough that she created a moving picture of her granddaughter's last few weeks—a cascading waterfall of captured moments.