Quotes About Nostalgia

We are all refugees from our childhoods. And so, we turn, among other things, to stories.

He was drawn to people from their country, both in the labor camp and online. It seemed to Nadia that the farther they moved from the city of their birth, through space and through time, the more he sought to strengthen his connection to it, tying ropes to the air of an era that for her was unambiguously gone.

a beautiful memory one knows has already commenced to fade. •

He preferred to abide, in a sense, in the past, for the past offered more to him.

Both would also wonder if this meant that they had made a mistake, that if they had but waited and watched their relationship would have flowered again, and so their memories took on potential, which is of course how our greatest nostalgias are born.

They were achingly beautiful, these ghostly cities—New York, Rio, Shanghai, Paris—under their stains of stars, images as though from an epoch before electricity, but with the buildings of today. Whether they looked like the past, or the present, or the future, she couldn't decide.

He was drawn to people from their country, both in the labour camp and online. It seemed to Nadia that the further they moved from the city of their birth, through space and through time, the more he sought to strengthen his connection to it, tying ropes to the air of an era that for her was unambiguously gone.

if they had but waited and watched their relationship would have flowered again, and so their memories took on potential, which is of course how our greatest nostalgias are born. Jealousy

I thought about this. As I have already told you, I did not grow up in poverty. But I did grow up with a poor boy's sense of longing

Lina bolted up in the morning, thinking she'd slept in. She pined for regular days, which used to include heat, bees, a messy room, songs, a crush. Now she would never have them again.

I drew out the Ham, lingered on the me, and softened the clip of the rick. I repeated the word, and with every slow joining of its three syllables, the fizzy taste of sweet licorice with a mild chaser of wood smoke flooded my mouth. A phantom swig of Dr. Pepper.

How is it that a little incident like this suddenly comes back to one, whereas something that moved one deeply at the time can simply be forgotten with the passage of the years?

The monotony stirs many bitter recollections

He closed his eyes and tried to remember the taste of snow apples. When he was a child, there was a gnarled tree of them behind his father's blacksmith shop. His mother would always pick them but there were never enough for more than a single tart. Spicy and yet sweet, like McIntosh, but the flesh was so impossibly white, pristine, and the juice was so abundant, that it was like no other apple he had ever tasted.

A man from another hemisphere, another background, coming to rest in middle life in the cottage of a half-neglected estate, an estate full of reminders of its Edwardian past, with few connections with the present. An oddity among the estates and big houses of the valley, and I a further oddity in its grounds. I felt unanchored and strange.

My first memory of school is of taking an apple to the teacher. This puzzles me. We had no apples on Isabella. It must have been an orange; yet my memory insists on the apple.

I used to think that I could never lose anyone if I photographed them enough. In fact, my pictures show me how much I've lost.

Matt's mouth watered at the memory of cookies.

Oh my past! It's such a long time ago now.

Wrapped in her mink bedspread, she would lie all day with her puppy beside her, reading fairy stories.

I often think there is nothing quite so poignantly sad as old family groups.

There they are, held like flies in the amber of that moment -- click goes the camera and on goes life, the minutes, the days, the years, the decades, taking them further and further from that happiness and promise of youth . . ..

The suburban dream began innocently enough one and a half centuries ago, with a weariness of city life and a craving for all things green bright and pure.

watching "I Love Lucy" reruns on TV Land–now there was a wacko, that Lucy woman–and