Quotes About Nostalgia

whisper their good-byes.

He ran down the heart of the old midway, where the weight guessers, fortune-tellers, and dancing gypsies had once worked. He lowered his chin and held his arms out like a glider, and every few steps he would jump, the way children do, hoping running will turn to flying. It might have seemed ridiculous to anyone watching, this white-haired maintenaance worker, all alone, making like an airplane. But the running boy is inside every man, no matter how old he gets.

I don't know what it is about the food your mother makes for you, especially when it's something that anyone can make - pancakes, meat loaf, tuna salad - but it carries a certain taste of memory.

I thought about him now and then, the things he had taught me about 'being human' and 'relating to others;, but it was always in the distance, as if from another life.. .. The people who might have told me were long forgotten, their phone numbers buried in some packed-away box in the attic.

He used the haunting phrase, "Alas for what has been lost.

I bought this the day before at a shopping mall. I didn't want to forget him. Maybe I didn't want him to forget me.

The curtain has just come down on childhood

And I suppose tapes, like photographs and videos, are a desperate attempt to steal something from death's suitcase.

Her dresses. Her shoes. A bottle of her perfume. You don't need much to remember someone, Francisco. Even one thing will do.

Once, lovers on faraway shores sat by candlelight and dipped ink to parchment, writing words that could not be erased. They took an evening to compose their thoughts, maybe the next evening as well. When they mailed the letter, they wrote a name, a street, a city, and a country and they melted wax and sealed the envelope with a signet ring.

Memories are not in places, Papa. Memories are in your mind. They're here, too.

I missed the crowds in those big stadiums, the flashbulbs, the roaring cheers - the majesty of the whole thing. I missed it bitterly. So did my father. We shared a thirst to return; unspoken, undeniable.

Love lost, is still love...You can't see their smile or bring them food or tousle their hair or move them around a dance floor. But when those senses weaken, another heightens. Memory.

Seberapa banyak pun kau mengumpulkan hari-hari sepanjang hidupmu, semua takkan cukup untuk menggantikan satu hari itu, satu hari yang ingin sekali bisa kau miliki lagi.

Lost love is still love, Eddie. It takes a different form, that's all. You can't see their smile or bring them food or tousle their hair or move them around a dance floor. But when those scenes weaken, another heightens. Memory. Memory becomes your partner. You nurture it. You hold it. You dance with it. Life has to end, she said. Love doesn't.

He told her the new names. No more Dippers or Tumble Bugs. Everything was the Blizzard, the Mind Bender, Top Gun, the Vortex. Sounds strange, doesn't it? Eddie said. It sounds, she said, wistfully, like someone else's summer. Eddie realized that was precisely what he had been feeling for years.

Then, in Annie's new grasp, Cleo's womanly frame shrank down. Her coat tightened and became her fur. Her legs pulled in. Her ears and snout elongated. She was revealed as the puppy she used to be on earth, and she panted as Annie held her up and said, "There you are. Cleo. Cleee-o!

Remember the memories.

I'm looking for the oldest pocket watch you have.

In time I came to view that event the way you view a faded vacation photo. It's just someplace you went a long time ago.

I collected the papers, wrapped them back in the rubber band, and felt a small grief, like a person who discovers, upon returning from a trip, that something has been left behind and there is no way now to retrieve it.

Back when she was a child. Back when everything was possible and there was still hope. Still so much hope in the world.

Some of my relatives held on to imagined memories the way homeless people hold onto lottery tickets. Nostalgia was their crack cocaine, if you will, and my childhood was littered with the consequences of their addiction : unserviceable debts, squabbles over inheritances, the odd alcoholic or suicide.

I did not grow up in poverty. But I did grow up with a poor boy's sense of longing, in my case not for what my family had never had, but for what we had had and lost.