Quotes About Nostalgia

I wonder what the years have gathered in the bags. I bet it's like looking through old trunks, old letters and photographs, an old shoe or two.

The human heart Is unknowable. But in my birthplace The flowers still smell The same as always.

Since my adolescence I have read two and sometimes three newspapers a day, frequently clipping an article that for obscure and soon forgotten reasons attracts me. I usually toss the clippings into a desk drawer, and later, often years later, I'll find myself reading through the clippings, throwing most of them out. It fills me with a strange sadness, a kind of grief for my lost self, as if I were reading and throwing out old diaries.

I thought that if could bring back the memory, I could bring back the feeling, and I would know for the first time what I truly wanted for myself, and then I would go and find it. That was my plan. But memories are always of things lost and gone and never returning.

Stil it takes you strange walking in your old foot steps like that. Putting your groan up foot where your chyld foot run nor dint know nothing what wer coming.

Something we once loved, and love now, in the shape of a book. Maybe eBooks are going to take over, one day, but not until those whizzkids in Silicon Valley invent a way to bend the corners, fold the spine, yellow the pages, add a coffee ring or two and allow the plastic tablet to fall open at a favorite page.

He would sit singing, his cheeks turning red above his whiskers; but his voice always came out deep and steady, like the sound of long ago, if long ago could make a sound instead of being forever lost and silent.

The past (...) It feels like it exists, but where is it? And if it did exist but doesn't now, then where did it go?

She chuckled to herself and wiped her eyes with her crooked old finger. Sometimes when she told stories about the past her eyes would get teary from all the memories she had, but they weren't tears. She wasn't crying. They were just the memories, leaking out.

Every passion borders on the chaotic, but the collector's passion borders on the chaos of memories. —Walter Benjamin, "Unpacking My Library

As she left the house and walked to the bus stop, it occurred to her that, really, a mother never stops carrying her child, and this thought brought tears to her eyes.

My throat clogged up like an old drain with these happy memories.

Missing things upset her. Missing price tags. Missing memories. Missing parts of her life.

I wish you could have seen the kitchen when I was done: It looked like a hurricane had blown right in the door! But I cleaned it all up, and when Mother came home the whole house smelled warm and spicy, Bing Crosby was singing White Christmas on the radio, I was wearing a clean apron, and she called me her little homemaker. What would you think about tomato mincemeat cookies? I bet no one else will think of that!

That's what I like so much about old libraries - they smell the way we'd like to imagine the past.

And that will be England gone, The shadows, the meadows, the lanes Ã¢â'¬Â¦

He invited me to his apartment in the wee hours one morning and pulled out a set of children's building blocks. It seems he used to ride around and around on the Yamanote Line with them, building castles on the floor of the train.

Even now I occasionally get a long letter from Kimiko, who's still in and out of mental hospitals. I've never written a reply. The Last Picture Show Iwas eighteen.

The ghosts of sad, cheap souls live on in sad, cheap furniture.

Sometimes you can remember everything about an old friend, down to minor details about his behaviour, but for the life of you you can't picture his face.

There is, however, a power that is called memory. It should be dear to all the good ones as well as to all lovers. Yes, it may even be so dear to lovers that they almost prefer this whisper of memory to the sight of each other, as when they say, "Do you remember that time, and do you remember that time?

It may be argued that the past is a country from which we have all emigrated, that its loss is part of our common humanity.

let me belong again to that faraway place I left so long ago, from which I am alienated, and which has forgotten me, in which I am an alien now even though it was the place where I began, let me belong again, walk those streets knowing they are mine, knowing that my story is a part of those streets, even though it isn't, it hasn't been for most of a lifetime, let it be so, let it be so

She watched him recede into the past as he stood...each successive moment of him passing before her eyes and being lost forever.