Quotes About Nostalgia

There is nothing sadder than an aging hipster.

For you see, in Ireland there is no future, only the past happening over and over.

Woody Allen has said, If I wanted to have a weekend of pure pleasure, it would be to have a half-dozen Bob Hope films and watch them, films like Monsieur Beaucaire and My Favorite Brunette. It's not for nothing that he's such a greatly accepted comedian. He is a great, great talent. Despite this praise from a celebrated contemporary funnyman, there is a tendency to take Bob Hope's films for granted.

Only one thing's sadder than remembering you were once free, and that's forgetting you were once free.

How do you press a wildflower into the pages of an e-book?

The books of our childhood offer a vivid door to our own pasts, and not necessarily for the stories we read there, but for the memories of where we were and who we were when we were reading them; to remember a book is to remember the child who read that book.

Maturity and experience shouldn't stop one from craving silly things like sliding down bannisters.

Even a paperback printed on acidic paper, whose pages have yellowed ten years on, can still be read, no matter how badly the spine is cracked or how inflated it's become from being dropped in the bathtub. The pages might separate from the spine, but a rubber band can keep them together. You may loan a book to your circle of closest friends, but shoes are another matter. A great book will never go out of style - books go with every outfit.

I'd give all the wealth that years have piled, the slow result of life's decay, To be once more a little child for one bright summer day.

We are but older children, dear, Who fret to find our bedtime near.

It's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards.

When we were little, the Mock Turtle went on at last, more calmly, though still sobbing a little now and then, we went to school in the sea. The master was an old Turtle - we used to call him Tortoise - Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn't one? Alice asked. We called him Tortoise because he taught us, said the Mock Turtle angrily: really you are very dull!

And though the shadow of a sigh May tremble through the story, For happy summer days gone by, And vanish'd summer glory-- It shall not touch with breath of bale, The pleasance of our fairy-tale.

When I used to read fairy tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when I grow up, I'll write one—but I'm grown up now, she added in a sorrowful tone: at least there's no room to grow up any more here.

Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood:

I kept his letters in a sandalwood box and covered them every day with the flowers I gathered in the garden.

LAO LAO TANG PAVILION What place under heaven most hurts the heart? Laolao Ting, for seeing visitors off. The spring wind knows how bitter it is to part, The willow twig will never again be green.

SENT TO DU FU BELOW SHAQUI CITY What is it that I've come to now? High before me: Shaqiu city. Beside the city, ancient trees; The sunset joins the autumn sounds. The Lu wine cannot make me drunk, Qi's songs cannot restore my feelings. My thoughts of you are like the Wen's waters, Mightily sent on their southern journey.

SEEING OFF MENF HAORAN FOR GUANLING AT YELLOW CRANE TOWER My old friend's said goodbye to the west, here at Yellow Crane Tower, In the third month's cloud of willow blossoms, he's going down to Yangzhou. The lonely sail is a distant shadow, on the edge of a blue emptiness, All I see is the Yangtze River flow to the far horizon.

We don't look at each other anymore. Not really. Not since I pulled him from that opium den. Now when I look at him, I see the addict. And when he looks at me, he sees what he would rather not remember. I wish I could be his adored little girl again, sitting at his side.

I miss Latin. So much fun--all those exciting verbs that don't come until the end of the sentence. It's like a movie trailer for language.

Can we talk about the miracle that is the Small World ride? It's like an acid trip drag show.

I can't help feeling humiliated for Ithal. He stands at the wall and watches us go, and when we reach the turnoff for the school, he's still there with the mangled flower in his hands, far behind us a small, dying star fading out of our constellation.

She has a scent that is familiar and comforting, like all the things you wish you could take with you on your travels to make you feel less alone.