Quotes About Nostalgia

His sister, in a big turquoise Angora sweater, leaned upon the wood frame of the open nursery door, anxiously looking out to see if he was really going to show, beaming and waving like a pastel colored TV Muppet when she spotted him.

It would be fairly easy for the industry to survive comfortably for a while by pandering to specialist group nostalgia or simple escapism, but the industry that concerns itself entirely with areas of this is in my view impotent and of little more consideration or interest than the greeting card industry.

I lived there as a boy and know the coalGlittering in its shed, late-afternoonLambency informing the deal table,The ceiling cradled in a radiant spoon.I must be lying low in a room there,A strange child with a taste for verse,While my hard-nosed companions dream of fireAnd sword upon parched veldt and fields of rain-swept gorse.

The classics can console. But not enough.

Art is History's nostalgia, it prefers a thatched roof to a concrete factory, and the huge church above a bleached village.

This was the end of some of those friendships. They were left behind, artifacts of youth, boxed up with my comic books, my sketchbooks ans journals, and the rest of my teenage mementos. Only a select few of my high school comrades, like Mike, would remain lifelong pals.

How often do parents nostalgically reflect on their children when they were younger? It is easy to look at photographs and miss those cute, plump-faced, miniature versions of the gawky and resentful specimens they have become.

How many powerful memories are triggered by smell and taste? Your mothers old perfume, the smell your fathers breath, the taste of the soap theyd make you eat.

I was recording stuff with my dad when I was like five, six years old. I played with him on tour. I'd gone with him to Japan in '91, played some gigs, did a couple shows at the Albert Hall.

It's possible that I've matured as a writer, and I hope I've matured emotionally, but I always find myself revisiting these adolescent scenes.

It is not entirely impossible that I might, like my mother, come to the end of my days murmuring, about some random memory: "It was absolutely divine.

C'est incroyable ce que la musique peut charpenter une vie, toute une vie, et te la rendre par pans entiers, alors que tu pensais avoir tout oublié.

The voice took Damian right back to a time when Joyce, he and Laurence were sitting at the table playing blackjack. It was all crisp edges and clusters of colours in his head, Joyce's purple cardigan, the gold buttons, the flowers on the table, the orange curtain. The vividness, the immediacy of the image, brought tears to his eyes.

Jump, by Kris Kross, on whether there is jumping during the chorus and for how long.

Three syllables and three thousand memories.

Memories were like bookmarks. Lately she didn't like the pages they were marking.

redhead." CeeCee remembered

I had the feeling if I hadn't been there

Sometimes she dreamed about him. They were good dreams......Some days she could barely remember what he looked like. Other days, she found him in the face of every man she saw.

The train surges forward. I start singing an old Irving Berlin song Mom used to play on the piano: "How much do I love you? I'll tell you no lie. How deep is the ocean? How high is the sky?…And if I ever lost you, how much would I cry? How deep is the ocean? How high is the sky?

I grew up loving horses. I was relatively obsessed, starting with my rocking horse at age 2, all the way through my painting and drawing phase.

I had deliberately let the relationship with Schulz wane until there was little left. We had been like the hot chocolate they sell at ski resorts. For your buck fifty, a machine first spews dark, thick syrup into a cup. This liquid gradually turns to a mixture of chocolate and hot water. Soon there is just a stream of hot water, and in a moment, drops. You wish the chocolate part would go on gushing forever, but it doesn't.

When I was a child, books were everything. And so there is in me, always, a nostalgic, yearning for the lost pleasure of books. It is not a yearning that one ever expects to be fulfilled.

I grew up where the family of butterflies the Silver Cloud is native.