Quotes About Nostalgia

Things that I grew up with stay with me. You start a certain way, and then you spend your whole life trying to find a certain simplicity that you had. It's less about staying in childhood than keeping a certain spirit of seeing things in a different way.

Anybody with artistic ambitions is always trying to reconnect with the way they saw things as a child.

You learn, finally, that you'll die, and so you try to hang on to your own life, that gentle, naive kid you used to be, but then after a while the sentiment takes over, and the sadness, because you know for a fact that you can't ever bring any of it back again. You just can't.

Twenty years. A lot like yesterday, a lot like never.

Looking back after twenty years, I sometimes wonder if the events of that summer didn't happen in some other dimension, a place where your life exists before you've lived it, and where it goes afterward.

I am forever astonished at the longevity of childhood. How it never ends. How we are what we were. How turtles and engines and stolen kisses leave their jet trail across our gaping lives.

Nostalgia—that's the basic sickness, and I never heard of a doctor who can cure it.

My memories begin in a fragrant California backyard, when I was two years old. The yard remains, infinitely smaller than it once seemed but still heady with eucalyptus oil and sudden gusts of ocean air, just as it was in 1956.

I'd be happy just to go back to about 1990," said Scott quietly. "The way we all were then.

Sometimes I miss you the way someone drowning remembers the air.

And if the air is chilly she feels it - in fact, if you put your hand on her arm you would know she still remembers how touching changed the weather, how a hand skimming the wrist was once a window opening onto a better season where people did better things than be lonely, where the wind was a river of candlelight pushing the blue silhouettes of trees.

so she stays there remembering the warmth of honey between her toes, with her blood not humming, with the sound of the name almost always coming to her.

You begin to arrange your research in bundles - letters - photos - telegrams. This is that last thing you see before you put on your overcoat: Robert and Rowena with Meg: Rowena seated astride the pony – Robert holding her in place. On the back is written: 'Look! You can see our breath!' And you can.

The occupants of memory have to be protected from strangers.

Master Stuart made his letters into paper darts and launched them page by page from the roof of the house-watching them descend and fade into the green ravine below...Some he saved to trade at school for other artifacts of war sent home by other elder brothers like his own-but only the letters mailed from France were worthy of this exchange. They had to have the smell of fire.

My whole life is out here-the whole of my life...I'd come here naked, as a boy-straight from that river out there-throw my clothes on the floor and climb into that loft and lie there dreaming in the hay...All those summer days-scouring the banks of the Avon for smooth, round stones-scaring up ducks and foxes-kingfishers-swallows...somebody's dog...Oh, God-I want it back. Throwing stones that never reached the other shore. And the games-the games-the games, and all my friends...

When I die and go over there, is it alright if I carry you around one more time?" - Sado Yasutora

He did not remember when everything began to remind him of something else.

he felt no more than a boy again-but a very well-versed boy who couldn't help thinking of the scene described by these old words, surely the most beautiful words written or said: His father, when he saw him coming, ran to meet him.

O for a beakerful of the warm South!

He tells another story about all that dust in those days. "My

She told her therapist it reminded her of coming home the summer after her freshman year at Rutgers, stepping back into the warm bath of family and friends, loving it for a week or two, and then feeling trapped, dying to return to school, missing her roommates and her cute new boyfriend, the classes and the parties and the giggly talks before bed, understanding for the first time that that was her real life now, that this , despite everything she'd ever loved about it, was finished for good.

It was like traveling back in time, meeting the person you used to be, and recognizing her as a friend.

It was surprisingly crowded, a bunch of middle-aged people, mostly women, moving enthusiastically, if a bit awkwardly, to Prince's "Little Red Corvette," trying to find a way back to their younger, more limber selves.