Quotes About Nostalgia

the summer of 1969, she will think: That was the summer I became real. My own real person.

Marguerite changed the CD to, of all people, Derek and the Dominos, because "Bell Bottom Blues" had been Candace's favorite song. It was her anthem.

Yeah, but no one uses half-dollars," I pointed out. "Except great-grandpas, and then they have caramels stuck to them." -Alice

I studied the photo of the boy, the one who had died six years ago, and wished I were dead. Dead people didn't have to do homework.

Archer pressed a preset button on my car radio. An old Britney Spears song blared, and I sung along to every word, bopping in my seat. Archer just looked at me. "Oh, come on!" I said. "Who doesn't sing along to Britney?

I have lots of records, quite a collection, actually, that I stole from my mom. I have the original 'Thriller' album and I have a really great 'Elton John's Greatest Hits ' and I also have a N.E.R.D. album. Records sound more original. They have more edge.

We are driving along a road I have driven my whole life. I still watch for the bends in the creek, checking to see how high the water comes up on the bank, I still hold my breath as we go around the blind turn, I can close my eyes and tell you where we are just by the way my stomach feels. I wonder if after I grow up and move away, if I came back would my body still remember this road, or would I have forgotten it?

I miss thee, my Mother! Thy image is still The deepest impressed on my heart.

The wind is full of memories; It whispers low and clear The sacred echoes of the past, And brings the dead more near.

Ah, we were blest in Arcady! Our hearts were innocent and free, We had no word for doubt or fear, We knew no sorrow and no tear, We felt no heart-ache and no pang, But lived and loved and laughed and sang-- Nor dreamed that heaven could happier be Than our glad life in Arcady!

Oh, it was fair in Arcady! Birds built and sang in every tree, And trill and warble, chirp and song, Rang sweet and clear the whole day long; The violets blossomed all the year, No lightnings scathed our happy sphere, Nor frost congealed on wood or lea, What time we dwelt in Arcady!

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight, Make me a child again, just for to-night! Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep-- Rock me to sleep, mother--rock me to sleep!

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years! I am so weary of toil and of tears-- Toil without recompense, tears all in vain-- Take them, and give me my childhood again!

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight make me a child again just for to-night!

To live in memory and in dreams is a cruel comfort.

I remember, when I was a child and wrote poems in little clasped books, I used to kiss the books and put them away tenderly because I had been happy near them, and take them out by turns when I was going from home, to cheer them by the change of air and the pleasure of the new place. This, not for the sake of the verses written in them, and not for the sake of writing more verses in them, but from pure gratitude.

It is pleasant even to look back on it. We were obliged to look narrowly at the economies, more narrowly than usual; but the cheapness of the place suited the occasion, and the little villa, like a mere tent among the vines, charmed us, though the doors didn't shut, and though (on account of the smallness) Robert and I had to whisper all our talk whenever Wiedeman was asleep.

The world had moved on without them. She would not play the game of memory.

Shared breath brought tumbling memories, salty bittersweet jewels.

The boy still smells like Strifbjorn.

Kit bumped Matthew with his shoulder, the way, once upon a time, he might have nudged another friend.

We used to call ourselves Team Zed. It sort of fell out of use after we had built up a decan of better reasons to feel like a family, but it still gets a wink and a grin every once in a while.

He sipped his wine and swirled it in the goblet, wishing bitterly that he could close the distance to the little cover by the fire and be one of them again. Wishing he could remember the touch of Will's hand, the press of Tom's mouth, without tasting the enormous soft emptiness that threatened to open like black wings and enfold him.

She could not bear to feel England's earth and cobblestones under her shoes again, she thought. And if she could bear that, then she might never bear to leave.