Quotes About Nostalgia

we used to take the boys to," Kins said. Two couples sat waiting. Tracy had also read that parents

You do your work as a photographer and everything becomes past. Words are more like thoughts the photographer's picture is always surrounded by a kind of romantic glamor - no matter what you do, and how you twist it.

And nothing to look backward to with pride,And nothing to look forward to with hope.

Back out of all this now too much for us,Back in a time made simple by the lossOf detail, burned, dissolved, and broken offLike graveyard marble sculpture in the weather,There is a house that is no more a houseUpon a farm that is no more a farmAnd in a town that is no more a town.

The old dog barks backward without getting up.I can remember when he was a pup.

It's harder to talk about, but what I really, really, really want for Christmas is just this: I want to be 5 years old again for an hour. I want to laugh a lot and cry a lot. I want to be picked or rocked to sleep in someone's arms, and carried up to be just one more time. I know what I really want for Christmas: I want my childhood back. People who think good thoughts give good gifts.

What I notice is that every adult or child I give a new set of Crayolas to goes a little funny. The kids smile, get a glazed look on their faces, pour the crayons out, and just look at them for a while....The adults always get the most wonderful kind of sheepish smile on their faces--a mixture of delight and nostalgia and silliness. And they immediately start telling you about all their experiences with Crayolas.

Other people his age had houses and washing machines, cars and television sets, furniture and gardens and mountain bikes and lawnmowers: he had four boxes of crap, and a set of matchless memories.

The feel of her was both new and familiar, as though he had held her a long time ago, as though he had missed it without knowing it for years.

Birthdays in Lucy's world were always celebrated, never forgotten: there must be cake and candles and cards and presents; time must be marked, order preserved, traditions upheld.

Why did the memory of innocence sting so much, as you got older? Why did the memory of the child who'd thought she was invulnerable, who'd never known cruelty, give her more pain than pleasure?

Por qué dolía tanto recordar la inocencia de la infancia cuando una se hacía mayor?

She felt as though she'd suddenly been transported from the distant past into a brash and indifferent present.

We used to laugh till we cried. I've never laughed like that since.

The memory of him telling her she was his best friend caused a little spurt of happiness every time she returned to it . . .

Forty years ago, but it feels like yesterday. They don't disappear, the dead. It'd be easier if they did. I can see her so clearly. If she walked up those steps now, part of me wouldn't be surprised. She was such a vivid person.

She thought of the day that Matthew had asked her out for the very first time and remembered walking home from school, her insides on fire with excitement and pride. She remembered Sarah Shadlock giggling, leaning against him in a pub in Bath, and Matthew frowning slightly and pulling away. She thought of Strike and Elin . . . what have they got to do with anything?

Yes. Childhood is the most dangerous place of all. If we had to live there forever, we wouldn't last very long.

Children remember staying up late. Grownups think about getting up early

I'm not having much of a life. It's not awful, just ordinary. I am trying to accommodate the memories of the life I had with the life I am now living, and I just can't do it. After being behind the wheel of a Lamborghini going 140 down Sunset Drive at four a.m., it's hard to get up and put on a polyester shirt and sell books at Barnes and Noble. But I'm not ashamed of it.

In old magazines and newspapers we find a number of uncomfortably revealing things: the aged as young, the dead as living, forgotten people as celebrities, an array of our own barbarous and long-discarded fads and postures, and worst, visible only in this removed perspective, our own sickening pretensions to meaning and permanence.

We are wistful about the Golden days of the past and dream of a distant future unclouded by necessity. But I suspect that if our inner souls were asked what in life they really missed, the answer would be primal danger and stress.

Nostalgia locates desire in the past where it suffers no active conflict and can be yearned toward pleasantly.

Such tenderness, those afternoons and evenings, saying blackberry, blackberry, blackberry.