Quotes About Nostalgia

You can't love anything more than something you miss.

It's hard to say goodbye to the place you've lived. It can be as hard as saying goodbye to a person.

Memory was supposed to fill the time, but it made time a hole to be filled.

I try not to remember the life that I didn't want to lose but lost and have to remember

The paper, the stapler, the staples, the tape. It makes me sick. Physical things. Forty years of loving someone becomes staples and tape.

I was of the opinion that the past is past, and like all that is not now it should remain buried along the side of our memories.

What does it remember like?

Grandfather kicked the stop pedal, and my face gave a high-five to the front window.

I have no need for the past, I thought, like a child. I did not consider that the past might have a need for me.

We believed in our grandmother's cooking more fervently than we believed in God.

She took the posters downtown that afternoon. She filled a rolling suitcase with them ... she took a stapler. And a box of staples. And hope. I think of those things. The paper, the stapler, the staples, the tape, the hope. It makes me sick. Physical things. Forty years of loving someone becomes staples and hop.

I put my hands into the pockets of all his jackets

I would give everything never to think about her again, I can only hold on to the things I want to lose.

Maybe we're just missing things we've lost, or hoping for what we want to come.

The older one gets, the harder it is to account for time. Children ask: "Are we there yet?" Adults: "How did we get here so quickly?

Everything she did reminded me of someone else.

Maybe we're just missing things we've lost, or hoping for what we want to come.

Yes, but the day has been decades.

Thinking about her is the next best thing!

Homer suggest that if you forget your pain, you forget your homeland-you 'lose your hope of home.'-pg.39

And the seasons they go 'round and 'round And the painted ponies go up and down We're captive on the carousel of time We can't return we can only look behind From where we came And go round and round and round In the circle game.

Ai, nunca mais seus lábios, sua língua, nunca mais sua ardida boca de cebola crua!

What man of us has never felt, walking through the twilight or writing down a date from his past, that he has lost something infinite?

Man's memory shapes Its own Eden within