Quotes About Nostalgia

Grownups! Everyone remembers them. How strange and even sad it is that we never became what they were: beings noble, infallible, and free. We never became them . One of the things we discover as we live is that we never become anything different from what we are. We are no less ourselves at forty than we were at four, and because of this we know grownups as Grownups only once in life: during our own childhood. We never meet them in our lives again, and we will miss them always.

Unbelief was easier than belief, much less demanding and subtly flattering because the agnostic felt himself to be intellectually superior to the believer. And then unbelief haunted by faith, as she knew by experience, produced a rather pleasant nostalgia, while belief haunted by doubt involved real suffering.

David could never come back to Damerosehay, Ben knew, without that shadow of a fear that something might have been changed and the old rapture of homecoming not be quite the same. Been understood. That was the worst of going away, like David had to. If you stayed at home, as he did, you knew that everything you loved was safe; day by day you watched over it, and if something had to change a little it changed so gradually that it did not hurt.

In times of storm and tempest, of indecision and desolation, a book already known and loved makes better reading than something new and untried. The meeting with remembered and well-loved passages is like the continual greeting of old friends; nothing is so warming and companionable.

What in the world was she saying? Not what she ought to be saying. She was repeating the verse of some old Elizabethan poet whom she had read in the days when she had been a cultured young woman of the world who had prided herself upon her cosmopolitan reading. Yes, she had been young once, young and beautiful—and warm. And now

One would know the first cold breath of old age, she thought, when one found oneself in a world where there was no one left to whom one was a child.

has proved to be true. You have a first city as you have a first lover, and this was mine.

Me, I drink to remember. If the right music's playing, if it's dark enough and I'm loaded, I can sometimes catch a flicker of that 3:00 A.M. feeling I used to live for.

Remember me at Winterlong.

Christmas was gone. Brendan didn't even hate it, because how could you hate something that was dead?

They had created themselves together, and they always saw themselves, their youth, their love, their lost youth and lost love, their failures and memories, as a sort of living fiction.

She would always be living her life backwards, she realized, trying to regain something perfect that she'd lost.

The present called for justice, not for nostalgia over another extravagant failure on the part of blind and incompetent white men.

You run over a part of yourself when you run over something that has such a place in your heart.

This is the way of long and empty roads: nearly forgotten things surface and singing voices improve.

She remembers reaching into her schoolbag for the letter the way you reach for a second piece of cake if it remains on the table long enough. You do it without thinking, even though you've been thinking of nothing else.

I breathe in and I remember you. I breathe out and remember you, I'll always remember everything.

There is a broken song that plays over in my head each time I hear someone say his name.

I was once beautiful you know, I ran with feet that knew nothing of falling, and wished hopeless wishes on shooting stars that I knew would never come true.

Its the littlest things that make me stop and remember you. Like that old song we always used to listen to, me in the passenger seat and you at the wheel.

That summer her memories were turned into melodies as he sung his way to her heart <3

I wonder what my last words to you, the only boy I have loved, will be.

The effort of trying to turn grief into regret, to live entirely on past nourishment, even to keep the sharper parts of nostalgia credible (he found himself beginning to doubt and struggle with the intricacies of the smaller memories), and, most of all, the fearful absence of anything that could begin to take their place, had worn him down.

Why do these big old country houses always have family portraits in the dining room? Do you really want to eat with someone's gloomy great-grandfather looking down on you?