Quotes About Nostalgia

My mom played the recorder. But not having electricity, we had minimal exposure to music. As I got a little older, we had Walkmans and things that were battery-powered, but it would have been nice to be growing up in the iPod era. A tape only has six songs on a side.

I have calmed down a little and my work is going better than yesterday, so well, in fact, that it does itself and I can slip back into the womb of time, into my youth, when I ironed my trousers and shined my shoes, soles included, every Saturday, because when you're young you love keeping clean, you love your self-image, an image you still have time to improve.

I cannot live in the new time anyway, because I belong to the old time, which is dead.

Jól van ez így, gondolta az apu, minden visszatér a maga kezdeteihez, most látom, hogy valóban megállt az idÅ' és tényleg új kor vette kezdetét, ám nekem csak a régihez van kulcsom, az új idÅ' elÅ'ttem bezárattatott, és én már nem élhetek ebben az új idÅ'ben, mert az én helyem a régiben van, és az már halott.

Cz?owiek miewa w ?yciu takie chwile, ?e lubi otacza? si? przedmiotami, które przypominaj? smutek.

In retrospect, it was only a matter of time before the Family Dinner passed into history and fast foods took over. I knew its days were numbered the day our youngest propped my mouth open with a fork and yelled into it, "I want a cheeseburger and two fries and get it right this time." I just didn't serve meals with show business pizzazz.

It's sad to know I'm done. But looking back, I've got a lot of great memories.

This Olympics is almost a little sad. It is my final Olympics. There are a lot of good memories.

We dare to jump so we can see something new. And sometimes we do it to recover a sense of what we once had.

I hadn't done drugs since sniffing Lady Esquire shoe polish when I was fifteen. I didn't need to. I felt the pinch of wonder.

I have very little memory of my childhood, so as I raise my kids the memories come back in the most bizarre ways. Like you're singing your baby a song, and you don't know why you remember it, but somehow you do. You don't even know the tune, but you sing it anyway and think, How am I singing this song?

Man sagt ja, die Erinnerung male mit einem goldenen Pinsel.

Home never appears to us so beautiful as when we are remote from it.

It's the worst part of seeing old friends: when your rose-colored memories become undone by reality.

There are some people in your life who bring back old memories. And there are others - your first kiss, your first love, your first sex - who, the moment you see them, bring a spark...and something far more potent. They bring back your old life and with that, potential. And possibilities. And the feeling that if you were back in that time, life could be so very different from where you're stuck right now. That's the most tantalizing thing....I want my potential back.

Memories always sting, don't they? The good ones most of all.

Junior year of high school. Ask Mom and Dad what they did yesterday, they won't remember. Ask them about anything from his youth, and it's like they studied replays at night. He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Got me.

She handed him an old class photograph, the color not so much fading as greening from age. Fifteen kids flanked by two teachers, one a far younger Peggy Joyce. The years had not been unkind to her, but they'd passed anyway.

If life were a movie, this was the part where you'd start the music montage. Some sappy song would be playing while they flashed to Ashley and me sharing lunch, talking, laughing, looking coy, holding hands—and ending with that first chaste kiss. That

Dr. Mervosh wore a sweat suit so old-school that Myron almost looked for the Fila label. Her hair was blond and she wore a headband. The whole look was Early Eighties Björn Borg. "No

Max emerged in the second exodus. When Grace saw her son—one sneaker lace untied, his Yu-Gi-Oh! backpack looking four sizes too big, his New York Rangers knit hat tilted to the side like a tourist's beret—the warmth rushed over anew.

There were usually protestors of some sort, but they looked more like actors in a nostalgic revival than genuine revolutionaries.

The lake was hold-your-breath still, but I swore I could still hear Dad's howl of delight as he cannonballed off the dock, his knees pressed tightly against his chest, his smile just south of sane, the upcoming splash a virtual tidal wave in the eyes of his only son.

Silly thought, but there you go. Memories, you see, hurt. The good ones most of all.