Quotes About Nostalgia

The books we read in childhood don't exist anymore; they sailed off with the wind, leaving bare skeletons behind. Whoever still has in him the memory and marrow of childhood should rewrite these books as he experienced them.

I know it's hard to blame the time, but there's a bit of an expectation for a summer movie. I think that 'Superman Returns' was a bit nostalgic and romantic, and I don't think that was what people were expecting, especially in the summer.

I remember my mom dressed like Janis Joplin.

It was a very happy time, but like all happy times it had no landmarks.

I was always very grateful to 'em and am grateful to 'em now. I went back a couple of years ago and did their 20th anniversary show. But the longer I stayed on Hee Haw, the worse things got for me musically.

Cakes are special. Every birthday, every celebration ends with something sweet, a cake, and people remember. It's all about the memories.

Time was when we made our own toys; when a piece of twine, a spool, a few nails and a bit of imagination could keep us busy and happy all day long.

Yes, I have heard something curious on that score sir, how that a dismasted man never entirely loses the feeling of his old spar, but it will still be pricking him at time.

It was in the summer of 1842

South Wind had been, in Marjorie's visions, a new clear world, a world where a grimy Bronx childhood and a fumbling Hunter adolescence were forgotten dreams, a world where she could at last find herself and be herself—clean, fresh, alone, untrammelled by parents. In a word, it had been the world of Marjorie Morningstar.

When you have lost your inns, you may drown your empty selves. For you have lost the heart of England.

Memories... are always blinding. They cause you pain... and sorrow.

The surprising thing, Khalil thought, is that they've changed the vessels that they speak through but they haven't turned up their noses at speaking completely, they long for it, they feel nostalgia for their past which, by necessity, is an innocent past.

Your generation was promised a decent husband and maybe a job on the side. Mine, I said with some nostalgia and a hint of disappointment, mine was promised jet packs.

In The Odyssey, we find instead the story of a man whose grand adventure is simply to go back to his own home, where he tries to turn everything back to the way it was before he went away. For this hero, mere survival is the most amazing feat of all.

I miss her when I can't remember what works best on insect bites, and when nobody else cares how rude the receptionist at the doctor's office was to me. Whether she actually would have flown in to act as baby nurse or mailed me cotton balls and calamine lotion if she were alive isn't really the issue. It's the fact that I can't ask her for these things that makes me miss her all over again.

And now, dear friend, - You who have journeyed with me in all these merry doings, - I will not bid you follow me further, but will drop your hand here with a good den, if you wish it; for that which cometh hereafter speaks of the breaking up of things, and shows how joys and pleasures that are dead and gone can never be set upon their feet to walk again.

An unfinished bottle of champagne found in an old cupboard with all the sparkle gone.

It was the kind of town that made you feel like Humphrey Bogart: you came in on a bumpy little plane, and, for some mysterious reason, got a private room with balcony overlooking the town and the harbor; then you sat there and drank until something happened.

I bought a small bottle of beer for fifteen cents and sat on a bench in the clearing, feeling like an old man. The scene I had just witnessed brought back a lot of memories - not of things I had done but of things I had failed to do, wasted hours and frustrated moments and opportunities forever lost because time had eaten so much of my life and I would never get it back.

Strange memories on this nervous night in Las Vegas. Five years later? Six? It seems like a lifetime, or at least a Main Era- the kind of peak that never comes again. San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be apart of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run... but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant.

Ia em direção ao ferry e quando cheguei à esquina parei a ver o que ele fazia. Foi a última vez que o vi e lembro-me muito claramente. Caminhou pelo molhe e parou junto ao poste de um candeeiro, a olhar para o mar. O único ser vivo numa cidade morta das Caraíbas: uma figura alta num fato gasto de Palm Beach, o seu único fato, agora cheio de pó e manchado de relva, com os bolsos largos, sozinho num molhe no fim do mundo imerso nos seus pensamentos

This is so much like the old days. And, again, I have mixed feelings. In some ways it's good and comfortable to be fitting straight back in like I've never been away, but, on the other hand, I'm getting this constrictive feeling as well. It's the same places - like the bars and pubs on Friday night - the same people, the same conversations, the same arguments and the same attitudes. Five years away and not much seems to have changed. I can't decide if this is good or bad.

our long-lost paradise with all the aching, poison-sweet memories it holds