Quotes About Nostalgia

he could read Mia's mind.   Ian and Tatiana sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G   When they were children, everything could be boiled down to such simple sentiments.

in that childhood room for whose warmth and safety we search all the rest of our lives and never find again.

Fish and chip night was a Kumar family tradition that dated back to when Jaget was courting his wife and they used to meet in the last white English-owned fish and chip shop in Wembley on the basis that none of their relatives would go in there. "It

The world was different before the war,' he said. 'We didn't have this instantaneous access to information that your generation has. The world was a bigger, more mysterious place - we still dreamed of secret caves in the Mountains of the Moon, and tiger hunting in the Punjab.

You can always tell an old cop car because however hard you scrub, it always smells of old cop.

The original house had been replaced by an indoor flower market with an arched iron and glass roof. Eliza Doolittle, as played by Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady, would have bought her violets there before moving off to display the worst cockney accent this side of Dick Van Dyke.

Under the vaulted arch of its white iron-and-glass roof it was as if IKEA had been hired to refit St. Pancras station. If Thomas the Tank Engine had been Swedish, his living room would have looked just the same.

Remembering can be a hard thing on a man," he suggested. "I wear life like an old pair of shoes that's easy on my feet.

Lolling around libraries paging through books that haven't been checked out since 1975 is one of my principal joys as a writer.

Neither of us had lived in a house since we were kids; apartments, it turns out, are very different things, psychologically. Houses—especially old and creaky houses—are individuals, somehow; their fronts are faces, their closets are pants pockets.

I had a slight feeling of babysitting as we walked soberly along together using all our old phrases, making all our old jokes, not quite feeling all our old fondness.

You have made me smile again; in fact I may be sore from it- it's been awhile.

I try not to jump to conclusions about anything I feel I've seen or heard before. I try not to write off music my kids play me as "throwback" even if it closely resembles something that I thought was new when I was a kid. Sure, I want to put on the seventies' English band the Jam and say, See! Your new little punk bands are just shiny versions of this! But I'd be wrong. To diminish the new as nothing more than a rehash is a mistake.

But I like the fog because it slows things up. Things are too damn fast to suit me. I like 'em slow. Like they used to be a century ago.

Think about how often—before cell phones, before any kind of caller ID—you answered the landline as a child and had to have an exchange, however brief, with aunts or uncles or family friends. Even if it was that five-second check-in, How are you doing, how is school, is your mom around—it meant periodic real-time vocal contact with an extended community, which, through repetition, it reinforced.

nothing in the world, I thought to myself, is as old as what was futuristic in the past.

None of the past was usable.

The momentary sense of having traveled back in time.

Because those moments had been enabled by a future that had never arrived, they could not be remembered from this future that, at and as the present, had obtained; they'd faded from the photograph.

fleeing into an imagined past

And I felt as if it were true: as if she were dying and not dead, or as if the train could take me back in time.

Great poets confront the limits of actual poems, tactically defeat or at least suspend that actuality, sometimes quit writing altogether, becoming celebrated for their silence; truly horrible poets unwittingly provide a glimmer of virtual possibility via the extremity of their failure; avant-garde poets hate poems for remaining poems instead of becoming bombs; and nostalgists hate poems for failing to do what they wrongly, vaguely claim poetry once did.

Che strano, Creta evocava i ricordi. Come una macchina del tempo, la sua antichità severa esumava immagini e sentimenti dal passato. Ogni momento sembrava rapportarsi a qualcosa che era successo anni prima.

The past that Southerners are forever talking about is not a dead past--it is a chapter from the legend that our kinfolks have told us, it is a living past, living for a reason. The past is a part of the present, it is a comfort, a guide, a lesson.