Quotes About Nostalgia

At his old school, they taught him a song to remember all its phases. Sometimes he'll sing it for us at dinner, but only if we do not request it.

Sometimes on the subway platform I still sway, imagining her in my arms.

famously, Scots are very interested in their past, real or invented, but who else is?

A dreary sense of loneliness came over him as he realized how everything he had brought with him from home and from the old days seemed to fall away from him and let him go his own way, forgotten and forsaken. The door to the past was barred, and he stood outside, empty-handed and alone; whatever he needed and desired he must win for himself--new friends and new shelter, new affections and new memories.

We all have our time machines. Some take us back, they're called memories. Some take us forward, they're called dreams.

Maybe we should've stayed like that, just hanging out. Maybe we never should've kissed those Keeley boys.

I open my eyes. Yech, boyfriend thoughts, the kind I haven't had since I was a teenager. It's one thing to imagine Shane naked and slathered in olive oil, but another animal entirely to picture us cuddling.

Somehow you always stayed quiet." He laid his hands beside each of mine, so that if he'd been solid, I would've been pinned between his body and the dresser. "Remember?

I'll never forget you. I'll never forget your voice or your face or your dumb jokes. And i'll never forget your love.

It was a little four-roomed cottage where the boy lived, and his mother—good soul!—gave us hot bacon for supper, and we ate it all—five pounds—and a jam tart afterwards, and two pots of tea, and then we went to bed.

Quand j'étais petite, je gardais les vaches; maintenant ce sont elles qui me gardent…

I grew up in the 1930s Great Depression when many families struggled to make ends meet, and in an area where old-fashioned country gospel music was popular. Later, as an adult with a more mature outlook on Christianity, I realized that a lot of that music was rather shallow.

We used to go to Studio 54 - an amazing place.

Too many younger artists, critics, and curators are fetishizing the sixties, transforming the period into a deformed cult, a fantasy religion, a hip brand, and a crippling disease.

When I was a kid, I could taste the difference between different colored M&Ms. I thought the red was heartier, more of a main course M&M. And the light brown was a mellower, kind of after-dinner M.

You know you're getting old when you get that one candle on the cake. It's like, 'See if you can blow this out.'

Each night I lie down in a graveyard of memories. Moonlight spins a shroud about me.

You occupied my space. But because you were not in my present, when I looked into my future I saw . . . nothing. Isn't that sad? And stupid?

That's the thing about people you loved. They disappeared on you. I didn't know much at the ripe old age of fifteen and a half. But, for better or worse, I knew that.

I have to admit, I wasn't close to my old man when he was alive. He was hardly ever home. But now that he was gone, and I was back in Pittsburgh, I thought about him all the time. I felt closer to the guy since he'd been buried than I ever did when he was walking around above ground. I realized how much I loved him.

It feels like I went right from pubescent to senior citizen. But what are you going to do? I'm lucky I caught myself. I might have ended up the only man in the rest home who still thought Jack Kerouac was cool.

Women in movies from Hollywood's golden era dressed the way my mother did now. My entire childhood, she'd shown up at PTA meeting in bust-hugging sequins, the sight of which gave my father complicated facial twitches. She was flamboyant, really, in no other way. There was nothing Auntie Mame about her. Unless Auntie Mame had a penchant for public collapse.

Maybe the reason you can never go home again is that, once you're back, you can never leave...

Mom lived in 709. Five doors down from 714, the number they stamped on Quaaludes.