Quotes About Nostalgia

behind them.

The past is always with us, darling," Tom went on. "Sometimes we carry it lightly, but other times it's like dragging a wounded brother behind you.

I know things are changing, but they don't change everywhere at the same speed. Down here time moves on the different clock. Down here it's still forty years ago, in some ways.

A garage is not always a way station for things destined for the dump, but a living and breathing memory album of moments shared. And promises of more moments to come.

Greta worked her way toward the back, skipping past racks and stacks of records marked with the year. One after another. It was as if she were going back in time, getting younger as she went and heading toward the girl she'd been back then. Young. Impressionable. A follower. The spark of memories made her shake her head. She'd come so far since then.

He loves it all anyway, as his first life as a teenager never allowed. Everything is different this time. On Sundays his mother's lengthy grace doesn't grate on him. This time he savors each one At high school he recalls who wrote poetry in Klingon, who sold dope, who was really gay and thought nobody knew. Friends, long forgotten by his late forties. As they pass by him again, he has a sad appreciation of how fleeting it all is.

It's said that you can never go home again, and it's true enough, of course. But the opposite is also true. You must go back, and you always go back, and you can never stop going back, no matter how hard you try.

It's said that you can never go home again, and it's true enough, of course. But the opposite is also true. You must go back, and you always go back, and you can never stop no matter how hard you try.

The cloak of the past is cut from patches of feeling, and

But there are some people, some loves, that worry every goodbye, and leaving them is like leaving the country of your birth.

She is no longer I, she is too long ago, she is only she...

Oh, everything is gorgeous once it's gone.

Those times are over and gone, and good-riddance to them, too. We were hopelessly high-spirited. Now we're the thick-waisted generation, dragging along our children behind us and carrying our parents on our backs. And we're in charge, while the figures who used to command our respect are wasting away.

Forget us, forget us all, it makes no difference now, but don't forget we loved it when we were alive.

Those times are over and gone, and good riddance to them, too. We were hopelessly high-spirited. Now we're the tick-waisted generation, dragging along our children behind us and carrying our parents on our backs. And we're in charge, while the figures who used to command our respect are wasting away.

I first became interested in 'great moments' when I read about the famous Feller-to-Boudreau pickoff play in the 1948 World series.

I have a vivid memory of loving Keith Hernandez, the first baseman for the '86 Mets. I grew up in Queens, so when the Mets won the World Series that year, it was a big deal.

The World Series is played in my doubtless too-nostalgic imagination in some kind of autumn afternoon light, and seeing it exclusively in the bitter chill of midnight breaks the spell of even the best of games.

I spent a year slaving over a hot rollergrill in a Metrodome concession stand and watched the World Series there - and a Super Bowl and a Final Four. I can honestly say - regardless of outcome - that I left every game floating on air.

I rooted for the Milwaukee Brewers and its stars, Robin Yount and Paul Molitor. I went to a lot of games, including the World Series in 1982. The Brewers may have been a bad team for most of my life, but to have your team at its peak when you are thirteen years old is an experience I wish for every fan.

Time and time again, I see former teammates, and we talk about it. It feels like we are all on the same page: We enjoyed the regular season, but we were disappointed in not making the World Series.

When I designed my loft, I literally framed the World Trade Center as a picture postcard I could see from my bed. I no longer have that image, and I mourn it.

When I was between the ages of five and nine, the soldiers of the Second World War wanted to have Betty Grable, but I wanted to be Betty Grable. She was the epitome of an alluring woman; she had it all as far as I was concerned.

At the age of nine, I could cross the length of Glasgow on a succession of buses, wearing regulation garter-topped stockings and compulsory cap and - if I'd done well enough to earn the honour in last week's test - with a First World War medal on a striped ribbon pinned to my brown blazer. I must have looked like a chocolate soldier.