Quotes About Nostalgia

Hi, dumplin'. Where your socks?" Marie seldom called Pecola the same thing twice, but invariably her epithets were fond ones chosen from menus and dishes that were forever uppermost in her mind.

Lying on a ring of onion, a tomato slice exposed its seedy smile, one she remembers to this moment.

Every now and then she looked around for tangible evidence of his having ever been there. Where were the butterflies? the blueberries? the whistling reed? She could find nothing, for he had left nothing but his stunning absence. An absence so decorative, so ornate, it was difficult for her to understand how she had ever endured, without falling dead or being consumed, his magnificent presence.

Home is memory and companions and/or friends who share the memory.

And how sweet that would have been: the two of them back by the milk shed, squatting by the churn, smashing cold, lumpy butter into their faces with not a care in the world.

The disc jockey announced the tunes as though they were made by his family or best friends: King Solomon, Brother Otis, Dinah baby, Ike and Tina girl, Sister Dakota, the Temps.

I could feel that purple deep inside me. And that lemonade Mama used to make when Pap came in out the fields. It be cool and yellowish, with seeds floating near the bottom. And that streak of green them june bugs made on the trees the night we left from down home. All of them colors was in me. Just sitting there. So when Cholly come up and tickled my foot, it was like them berries, that lemonade, them streaks of green the june bugs made, all come together.

Here is the house.

We was girls together

Does anybody regret leaving a hotel room? Does anybody, who has a home, a real home somewhere, want to stay there? Does anybody look back with affection, or even disgust, at a hotel room when they leave it?

We're not migrating people,' she said. 'We live in our old houses, and eat on our old dishes and use our old silverware everyday. We're close to the past and comfortable with it. We've surrounded our lives with the pictures of all our relatives hanging on the walls, and we grow up hearing stories about them. It gives these things personality beyond just the material they're made of.

The past was neither as good nor as bad as we suppose: it was just different. If we tell ourselves nostalgic stories, we shall never engage the problems that face us in the present - and the same is true if we fondly suppose that our own world is better in every way. The past really is another country: we cannot go back. However, there is something worse that idealising the past - or presenting it to ourselves and our children as a chamber of horrors: forgetting it.

However, there is something worse than idealizing the past—or presenting it to ourselves and our children as a chamber of horrors: forgetting it.

Nothing, of course, is ever quite as good as we remember. The social democratic consensus and the welfare institutions of the postwar decades coincided with some of the worst town planning and public housing of modern times. From Communist Poland through

The place I belong...Maybe it did exist. I was too stupid and stubborn to notice it, but what I really wished for back then was here. Why do I always see these things after they're done and gone?

I was dreaming. On nights of the full moon I'd become a small child and find myself embraced by nostalgic warmth. But when I wake from the dream all that remains is a faint sense of loneliness. That, too, soon fades away. Along with a single tear like morning dew.

There really is no place like home, even when it's grown a couple of sizes too small...

From the front row of the balcony, I look out over the Uptown Cinema. The red velvet seats are emptying, the credits scrolling up the screen. Ginger Rogers married a Nazi, but Cary Grant got her out of it. Their ship is sailing to America; sun burns away the fog and the wind blows free. Now they are gone and I am coming back to reality, breathing a harsher air. It is how I always feel when a movie ends.

I have crossed over, and that childhood is as far away and strange as something that happened to someone else in a land beyond the sea. That boy is not me, though I am what he became.

One only has a few fragrant nights of spring. Store your memories for when you are old. You will enjoy them again under such a moon as this.

Those cigarettes were beckoning. Come to us, they said. You remember us. I did remember them. My love affair with tobacco had been long and passionate.

It's funny, but I was just thinking I wouldn't mind a repeat of that boring evening when we elapsed to 1953," said Gideon. "Just you and me and Cousin Sofa.

Home is where your books are.

Je to trochu divný, ale zrovna te? uvažuju, že se za?ínám docela t?šit na nudné elapsovací ve?ery do roku 1953," ?ekl Gideon. ,,Jen ty a já a sest?enka pohovka...