Quotes About Nostalgia

I am still able to recite long portions of Alfred Noyes's "The Highwayman" at the slightest provocation.

We been in this house forty year," he said. "Bought it back in nineteen and forty-three for four thousand dollar. Bet you never heard of a house that cheap. Now it's worth one hunnert and fifteen thousand. Just the lot we're settin' on. That don't even count the house. They can knock

I dreamed of my grandparents living there as though they always had with their habits, their rituals, their ways of speaking. With the illusory sense I had as a girl, when my own world was so fragile, that they always would be there. That they would always welcome me and care for me. That they were a place I could always go. A homeland

Dylan Thomas, 'Fern Hill

There's nothing like a song about lost love to remind you how everything precious can slip through the hinges where you've hung it so careful.

As I descended the stairs, the years between us seemed accumulated everywhere, filling the house, and it seemed strange to me, how love and habit blurred so thoroughly to make a life.

There's nothing like a song about lost love to remind you how everything precious can slip from hinges where you've hung it so careful.

The bees came the summer of 1964

There's nothing like a song about lost love to remind you how everything precious can slip from the hinges where you've hung it so careful.

and a true brass thimble. Mauma said the thimble would be mine one day. When she wasn't using it, I wore it on my fingertip like a jewel.

Every time it happened, it was like coming upon an empty room I didn't know was there, and stepping in, I would be pierced by it, by the ghost of the one who'd once filled it up. I didn't stumble into this place much anymore, but when I did, it hollowed out little pieces of my chest.

The oddest things caused me to miss her. Like training bras. Who was I going to ask about that? And who but my mother could've understood the magnitude of driving me to junior cheerleader tryouts? I can tell you for certain T. Ray didn't grasp it. But you know when I missed her the most? The day I was twelve and woke up with the rose-petal stain on my panties. I was so proud of that flower and didn't have a soul to show it to except Rosaleen.

That night it felt strange to be in the honey house by myself. I missed Rosaleen's snoring the way you'd miss the sound of ocean waves after you've gotten used to sleeping with them. I didn't realise how it had comforted me. Quietness has a strange, spungy hum that can nearly break your eardrums.

But today when I am 17 and warm and well fed, I'm keeping this journal for myself so I can always remember life as we knew it, life as we know it, for a time when I am no longer in the sunroom.

But today, when I am 17 and warm and well fed, I'm keeping this journal for myself so I can always remember life as we knew it, life as we know it, for a time when I am no longer in the sunroom.

Remember, childhood only lasts 10-12 years. There's a lot that has to be squeezed in to make for a lifetime of happy memories. ?

The path has a cottage garden on both sides; clumps of old-fashioned flowers ran all over each other: lamb's ear, mint, & rhubarb, roses, forget-me-nots, bleeding hearts & wisteria. I walked very slowly, savoring. At the end of the slate path was the house, very recognizable now... As nearly perfect a little place as I ever lived in is how Beatrix described it.

Once upon a time .... I want to have a little house with sunlight on the floor, A chimney with a rosy hearth and lilacs by the door. (Nancy Bird Turner)

having tried and failed to invent a better future for himself, in the end he invented a better past"178

The child I was is the only child I really know.' That's it. I can still feel what it was like to be that child of the 1940s from inside; I am still the same mixture of insecurity and determination, shyness and arrogance, curiosity and fear. I have the same talent she had; the same imagination. I write for her, for that child, and so it is true when I say I write for myself.

No, he didn't win," Great-Uncle Merry said, and even in the clear afternoon sunshine he seemed with every word to become more remote, as ancient as the rock behind him and the old world of which he spoke.

Great-Uncle Merry stopped reading; but the children sat as still and speechless as if his voice still rang on. The story seemed to fit so perfectly into the green land rolling below them that it was as if they sat in the middle of the past.

No child is wholly wrapped in the present who has grown up seeing a Norman castle from his or her bedroom window.

It was the past, the uncomplicated past seen far away at the end of the golden corridor of nostalgia