Quotes About Nostalgia

I fell in love with David Bowie in 'Labyrinth'. That's probably the initial fantasy movie that I saw and fell in love with.

I sailed through my childhood with a complete lack of any drama.

Believe me, dulcea??, the advent of the mini is forever emblazoned on my mind.

I remember everything.

Whatever is lost stays alive if we remember it.

We used to fly past shoppers in the town centre and especially in the winter, wrapped up in our duffle coats, woolen hats and scarves we used to get so warm that there would soon be coats unbuttoned, scarves trailing behind and rosy cheeks by the time we got to school.

I'm afraid that the gift of visiting the past is all that we have. We can revisit it, but only as it happened.

The thing you have to remember with old cars is that they don't just start up cold as soon as you turn the key. You have to pump the gas twice and then hold down the pedal.

I turn my back on him as he goes, and settle myself in the parlor, and touch Ma's piano. My fingers leave sighs in the dust.

Don't leave me, Rainbow Girl." Rainbow Girl. Was that who I was? It seemed so long ago. I smiled faintly. "Remember the skirt I wore to Mallucé's the night you told me to dress Goth?" "It's upstairs in your closet. Never throw it away. It looked like a wet dream on you.

Whatever happened to the good old days when books just got along, cozied up together on bookshelves, hanging out, waiting to be read?

Oh, the cockiness of youth. How I missed mine.

my hair was a mass of tangled curls just like the old days, minus

I ordered, Dad paid, just like old times when life was simple, and Daddy was always there to be my Friday night date whenever my latest boyfriend had been a jerk.

There's no such thing as normal," Barrons says. "You keep thinking that. You suffer hiraeth." "Here-eyeth?" I echo. "A Welsh word that means unattainable longing for a place—or perhaps more accurately a state of being—that never existed. Nostalgia for something that never was.

I leaned closer, staring in through the glass. He'd refurnished the bookstore. How long had I been gone? There was my magazine rack, my cashier's counter, a new old-fashioned cash register, a small flat-screen TV/DVD player that was actually from this decade, and a sound dock for my iPod. There was a new sleek black iPod Nano in the dock. He'd done more than refurnish the place. He might as well have put a mat out that said WELCOME HOME, MAC.

She'll remember, when there's nothing else left of me worth remembering.

Books were faithful and reliable. You could pack them up and put them in a box, run your hands over the spines, flip through their pages full of memories. They always came with you, wherever you went.

I realized I was still caught between two worlds. I missed the idealism and even the redundancy of home, the little routines of my father's, like throwing his keys in the air, and the way my mom's smile could make the whole world forget its worries...

There is a rustle of dead leaves. Dried sap, a branch crack, the whirring teeth of Mr. Omaru's saw. My father--my real father--is a limb that got axed off the family tree a long time ago now. My mother coughs and cleans phantom juices off her silver with a cloth doily. My sisters clench their knives.

She used to suffer these intense bouts of homesickness in her own bedroom.

For the first time, I feel just as sorry for my ma as for my dad. Everybody wants to go home, and no one can agree on where that is anymore.

Increasingly, Sawtooth's own memories are a loud bright muddle, like opening the door on a party full of strangers. He lies awake at night, limping down the long corridors of his memory, trying to find the girl's hands, ...

The girl has a funny way of romanticizing things.