Quotes About Nostalgia

It can make you sad to look at pictures from your youth. So there's a trick to it. The trick is not to look at the later pictures.

The old Hollywood I knew is dead. It only exists now in still photographs and a few people's memories." — Olivia de Havilland

There's a place beyond words where experience first occurs to which I always want to return.

I look back into past history, the stored experiences or products of the imagination. I look no further forward than the evening.

Corre por mi memoria atrapadas por las brumas del olvido, las largas borracheras de papá

No puedo olvidarla» se repite con un susurro apagado, sujetando la cara entre sus manos, tratando de sepultar el pasado.

la conoció en la escuela, cuando aún era niño, nunca le hablo, siempre la miró en el recreo, sentado en la baranda del jardín, que adornaba con rosas el patio de juegos;

Veo a los lejos, el árbol de eucalipto, donde algún día ya olvidado, bese a la mujer que me enamoró por primera vez, y con la que mi cuerpo, tuvo la primera explosión volcánica, y a quién jamás vi o conocí personalmente, sino es, por la vieja foto de almanaque.

Matías, se deja llevar por la nostalgia y comprende, a través del poema escrito por su padre, que más allá de la vida, lo más importante es saber amar y él supo amar, inclusive más allá de sus propias cenizas.

abril— mes frio por naturaleza, y el cual me llena de melancolía pueril, de aquella inmadura relación con la vida.

La locura de los años mozos, nos abrumaba por aquellos días, escondidos en habitaciones de hotel, envueltos en el sudor de otros amantes.

He looked down at her and caught a whiff of the honeysuckle fragrance of her hair. God, how he loved that smell. He'd planted fourteen honeysuckle bushes around his estate in Crestwood five years ago just to have a tiny piece of her there with him.

Some memories remain close; you can shut your eyes and find yourself back in them. But there are second-person memories, too, distant you memories, and these are trickier: you watch yourself in disbelief.

The old man began to sing. His voice was very lovely and obviously a part of something that the world had disposed of in its haste, evidence of a grander, kinder past.

Some people forget, do you know – they forget what it is like to be young, to feel things ruthlessly, terribly. If you forget that much of life, well, I don't know.

Your life has been made up of chambers, a series of chambers, so the interlocutor said, his hand on my arm — and in each chamber it is difficult to remember exactly what it was like to be in the previous room. You can remember that certain things happened when you were a child. But, what it was like to be there, to be a child, it really is lost to you. Our world is a difficult succession of losses, vaguely remembered, vaguely enshrined.

Wes imagined that, in some other distant world, if he remembered nothing else about his father, he would remember that his hand trembled when he drank water. That, or the fact that his eyes teared up whenever he heard "Brown-Eyed Girl" on the radio.

I thought it was my job to give all the boys their first kiss.

Soul food, it would seem, depends on an ineffable quality. It is a combination of nostalgia for and pride in the food of those who came before. In the manner of the Negro spiritual "How I Got Over," soul food looks back at the past and celebrates a genuine taste palate while offering more than a nod to the history of disen-franchisement of blacks in the United States.

It was almost exactly like the caves to the east where my girl cousins met their swains to canoodle.

We didn't have television until I was about eight years old, so it was either the movies or radio. A lot of radio drama. That was our television, you know. We had to use our imagination. So it was really those two things, and the comics, that I immersed myself in as a child.

her dearest friends were like dreams she had woken from. How had she missed so much?

The final day came, and I wore an outfit my mom and I put together from the $5 rack at a discount store. I had a Blossom-style derby hat, denim jacket, and a tie with pigs on it. (Remember, my cousin Sarah loved pigs, so I loved pigs.) It all made sense in 1993.

There was romance of a kind in the shabby