Quotes About Nostalgia

Ah, Gerard, Gerard , she found herself thinking. Why could you not have remained simply the golden boy of my memories?

A Christmas to remember. For the rest of her life. But how would she remember it? With the ache of sadness and loneliness and loss? With sweet nostalgia?

She wondered how long it would be before she could no longer remember clearly what he looked like. She turned her head to look at him now as if it were somehow important to remember, to memorize

He knew that after tomorrow he would try to remember what she looked like and not always succeed.

And she did not want to be reminded of how Christopher had changed. She wanted to remember him, if at all, as he had been before.

And he had kissed her with as much hunger as she had felt. For the minute or two that they were in each other's arms, she was sure, the years had been swept back for both of them.

But there is a difference between thinking of an absent friend and thinking of someone who used to be a friend and never will be again.

He should have stayed away. The memories were going to be very sweet, it was true. They were also going to be unbearable.

And after he was gone, there would be memories to live on. But she would not think of that yet.

Never more to find her where the bright waters flow...her smiles have vanished and her sweet songs flown

Aunt Blythe went inside to check on Great-grandfather, but I sat on the front steps and watched the sun sink behind the trees across the highway. A little chill crept across my skin. Summer was almost over. Soon my parents would return and I'd go back to Chicago. There would be no more midnight meetings in the attic. No croquet games with Hannah, no boxing lessons from John, no fights with Edward.

feel like the bright past is coming through the gray present and I want to look at it one more time.

There comes a time', the White Crow said, 'when you can't smell the air of any kind of a day without it bringing some other past day to mind. When that happens, you're not old, but you're no longer young.

Het doet me aan mijn Giuliana denken... Ik ben haar voorgoed kwijt. - Enrico

But most of the time, we keep memories packed away. I sometimes liken that moment of sudden unpacking to circus clowns pouring out of a miniature car trunk—how did so much fit into such a small space?

After Mother got her picture, we all stood around the fire truck eating moon-shaped cookies dusted with powdered sugar that the mayor's wife had brought in some Tupperware. It was stuff like that that'd break your heart about Leechfield, what Daddy meant when he said the town was too ugly not to love.

We look at the world once, in childhood. The rest is memory. Louise Glück, "Nostos

The word daddy hung in the air outlined in gold. Closing my eyes, I found it in blue on my eyelids. I could feel the roots my daddy had grown in me—actual branches in my body. His was the ethos of country folk: people who kept raked dirt yards rather than grassy lawns because growing grass was too much like field work; people who kept the icebox on the porch, plugged in with an extension cord run through a window, so folks driving by would know they had one.

For all of memory's power to yank us back into an overwhelming past, it can also fail big time—both short-term (the lost vehicle in a parking lot, the name at the tip of your tongue) and long-term (we made out in high school?).

I bent down the page, whose small triangle still marks the instant. Touching that triangle of yellowed paper today is like sliding my hand into the glove of my seventeen-year-old hand. Through magic, there are the Iowa fields slipping by with all the wholesome prosperity they represent. And there is my mother, not yet born into the ziplock baggie of ash my sister sent me years ago with the frank message Mom ½, written in laundry pen, since no one in our family ever stood on ceremony.

Savannah gray bricks

Halcyon days," he repeated. "I guess you don't know you're living them until years later, looking in the rearview mirror.

Saturday evening, Riley was sprawled out on the flowered chintz sofa in the library, engrossed in a book she estimated she'd first read when she was Maggy's age. It was a Helen MacInnes international espionage novel and, even without the spidery handwriting proclaiming it the property of Earline Riley on the flyleaf, she knew it had been her grandmother's.

After a moment of fiddling with the tuning dial she found a radio station playing '90s oldies.