Quotes About Nostalgia

The joy of a small town lies in its unchanging nature.

Hay soledad en el hogar sin bulla, sin noticias, sin verde, sin niñez.

except my eyes had fallen right off the vista and landed on a black 1967 Chevy Impala. It didn't belong up here in the woods any more than Petite might've, but it was a beautiful car. Gary parked a few spaces down from it and I got out to walk circles around it. Kansas license plates. I patted the Impala's hood and mumbled, "Long way from home, aren't you, baby?" before reluctantly turning away.

The smell of home was indistinguishable from the smell of leaving home: each inhalation a mix of familiarity and fear.

It was easy to leave what had become of my country. But hard to leave the country that it once had been.

He lives in his memories

And then he was there, staring at me from behind the screen door. I'd like to say he no longer affected me, that seeing him was a disappointment. But it wasn't true. I felt as strongly about him as I had on that first day I'd seen him in calculus class.

Watching the cab speed off, Wahoo's father looked forlorn. "It's like she's leaving us twice," he remarked. "What are you talking about, Pop?" "I'm seein' double, remember? There she goes—and there she goes again.

want Mrs. Starch to come back!

Why does it seem I won't come back here? Why speak of it as of, already, a place I miss?

I'd remember the way everyone else does: later, when none of it matters, memory as good as a mirror for changing things, no good at all

And after we returned to the savannahs and abandoned the trees, did we long for those great graceful leaps and ecstatic moments of weightlessness in the shafts of sunlight of the forest roof?

Even after 400 generations in villages and cities, we haven't forgotten. The open road still softly calls, like a nearly forgotten song of childhood.

His voice was right. She instantly remembered it. And his smell, his gait, his laugh. The way his beard abraded her cheek. All of it combined to shatter her self-possession. She could feel a massive stone seal being pried open and the first rays of light entering an ancient, almost forgotten tomb.

The past is a bucket of ashes

In memory everything seems to happen to music.

I soon found myself becoming indifferent to people. A well cynicism rose in me. Conversations all sounded as if they had been recorded years ago and were being played back on a turntable.

loved to go and make fun of the homecoming

Sometimes missing things was the next best thing to having them.

there is no greater misery than to remember, with bitter regret, a day when you were happy 

I ricordi non sono tesori di vetro da tenere conservati dentro una cassa. Sono nastri colorati da appendere al vento.

He had never come back to anything. The past was never his concern.

He said it was better to belong where you don't belong than not to belong where you used to belong, remembering when you used to belong there.

And, as always happens, and happens far too soon, the strange and wonderful becomes a memory and a memory becomes a dream. Tomorrow it's gone.