Quotes About Nostalgia

Almost everything in this inbox is expired. Look." She handed him a yellowed scrap of paper from the bottom of the pile. Dear God: Please get me tickets to C+C Music Factory. Tania Banks, March 3, 1991

Each year is like putting a new coat over all the old ones. Sometimes I reach into the pockets of my childhood and pull things out.

I barely remember her, but I am still in love with her ghost.

He may be out of my life physically, but he'll always be a part of me. I can't let go even if I wanted to.

You smell of cinnamon in spite of the mombins.' 'You smell of cinnamon too,' I'd murmur.

It is one of the major tragedies that nothing is more discomforting than the hearty affection of the Old Friends who never were friends.

She was snatched back from a dream of far countries, and found herself on Main Street.

Sometimes we hope for what we left behind.

We may be strong, but not in memories.

I Love a Lassie.

I have begun to wonder what actually happens in our brains when we return to half-remembered places. What is memory's perspective? Does the man revise the boy's view or is the imprint relatively static, a vestige of what was once intimately known?

Old places fire the internal weather of our pasts. The mild winds, aching calms, and hard storms of forgotten emotions return to us when we return to the spots where they happened.

Infancy is irretrievable. Its memories live underground. To what extent they return by stealth or are triggered by various catalysts remains an ongoing question.

He hunched his shoulders and looked at the floor. With that movement, he entered the past. When he put on his jacket, kissed me again, and walked to the door, he was already a memory.

First loves are often terrible, probably because they are first and there is no conscious history into which they may be absorbed.

I'm fond of that little scene. Whether my memory is completely accurate or not, it has a sharpness that nothing I look at now can possibly have.

The misery I felt was grief. I wanted her back, my old self.

It appears that time has turned that young woman, who imagined herself a romantic heroine, into something of a comic character, but I remain fond of her. We are relatives, after all.

My memory of the school building itself, its rooms and lockers, blackboards, and hallways, bring on a heavy, oppressive feeling. Whether I was more unhappy in school than any of my friends I don't know. I never would have said I didn't like school, and there are moments I distinctly remember enjoying, but these truths don't alter my memory of that place.

It can only be that places left behind often become emotionally simplified - that they sound a single note of pain or pleasure, which means that they are never what they were.

It may be that I link every library to that first one - to my early childhood experience of drawing on the floor near my father's desk. A library is of course a real place, but it is also an unreal one. What happens there is mostly silent. I think I've always liked the whispering aspect of libraries, the hushing librarians and my feeling of solitude among many.

My senses remained on high alert, and even thinking back on that time makes me feel giddy. I could never have a similar experience now. I have too much behind me, too many references, stories, too many years of thoughts.

My life had shrunk, and when I thought of past events, when I talked to my parents on the phone, when I saw an acquaintance or fellow student on the street, all these things seemed to be from another lifetime.

Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.