Quotes About Nostalgia

We think- oh, we will never forget these northern lights, but we do. What we remember is only the curling picture in the left-hand drawer (Presque Isle, Maine, 1934) or a gorgeous half-page photo in an old travel magazine, but what we saw when we held hands, lifting our chins to the sky as if we could leap into the jagged, jeweled brilliance above us, was seen for ten seconds only, and never again.

Il passato è come una candela posta a una distanza inadeguata: troppo vicina per renderti quieto, troppo lontana per confortarti.

Devon stares at him standing there, remembering the only other guy had ever opened a car door for her. Last summer. The sky was bright blue mirroring the water, the sun warm. A perfect day. He had smiled down at her; he'd That Look in his eyes- warm and eager and a little bit vulnerable. When he'd look at her in that way, and smile that tilted smile, her body would tingle with an electric tension that robbed her breath away. That was then. And now? Now she is here.

By the time we were in high school the only difference was that we were talking about how J.D. didn't know that tongue in a girl's ear wasn't a good thing instead of which one of us was going to marry the lead singer of Fall Out Boy one day.

faded blue flannel shirt, and he smelled so good, I kept lowering my head to his shoulder and breathing in the dark, rich scent hidden in the hollow of his throat.

Wishin'   you were here don't place you in the old wing chair. Face you   in the photos, china, art on parlor walls. It's raining in my heart.

He could not wait to get rid of them so he could enjoy remembering them.

I used to travel in tennis shoes I am just not allowed to anymore. I'm an old hippie from San Francisco.

God, "Kashmir" was a long damned song.

For a moment in time, Bobby didn't exist. Nothing existed but these two souls, reconnecting, learning the feel and taste of each other all over again. Bobby watched them, entranced, and swallowed. He wanted that. He could have that. He could have that with Reg.

His heart felt like an aging cardboard box in the rain. Only the memory of what he was supposed to be held him up.

as much as I like the past not to excist but it still does

I worked at an ice cream parlor called Chadwicks. We wore old-timey outfits and had to bang a drum, play a kazoo, and sing 'Happy Birthday' to people while giving them free birthday sundaes. Lots of ice cream scooping and $1 tips.

Ah man. I remember the days of lying to my mother about a boy. Once I had a boy hidden in the closet and of course Mom wouldn't leave, so I finally had to pretend to get sick to my stomach just to get her out of the room long enough for him to climb out the window and down the tree. He fell, broke his leg. Ah, to be young again.

After all, Bao Bomu says, what is the past but what we choose to remember?

Even sheets felt different at the cottage. On certain days...the sheets were aired out in the sun. I slipped in between two crisp pieces of cloth, like a book mark between two pages.

I don't listen to a lot of new stuff. I just like the old stuff. It's all quite dramatic and atmospheric. You'd have an entire story in song. I never listen to, like, white music - I couldn't sing you a Zeppelin or Floyd song.

Quizá la nostalgia sea un deseo; o el resplandor de un tiempo en el que creíamos ser felices.

It is one of the paradoxes of American literature that our writers are forever looking back with love and nostalgia at lives they couldnt wait to leave.

In an age like ours, which is not given to letter-writing, we forget what an important part it used to play in people's lives.

Yet, every now and then, there would pass a young girl, slender, fair and desirable, arousing in young men a not ignoble desire to possess her, and stirring in old men regrets for ecstasy not seized and now forever past.

I never go into the country for a change of air and a holiday. I always go instead into the eighteenth century.

All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another.

speaking of Ann Radcliffe) A work of art worthy of the name is one which gives us back the freshness of the emotions of childhood.