Quotes About Nostalgia

It's a pleasure to share one's memories. Everything remembered is dear, endearing, touching, precious. At least the past is safe-though we didn't know it at the time. We know it now. Because it's in the past; because we have survived.

Some memories are realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again.

As the dew to the blossom, the bud to the bee, As the scent to the rose, are those memories to me.

Yesterday I lived, today I suffer, tomorrow I die; but I still think fondly, today and tomorrow, of yesterday.

We are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not.... We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget.

The past with its pleasures, its rewards, its foolishness, its punishments, is there for each of us forever, and it should be.

The past is that which we possess fully and in whole.

The past not merely is not fugitive, it remains present.

Enjoy yourself. These are the "good old days" you're going to miss in the years ahead.

Don't let it be forgot, That once there was a spot -For one brief shining moment That was known as Camelot.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: "It might have been!"

I conceive that the right way to write a story for boys is to write so that it will not only interest boys but strongly interest any man who has ever been a boy. That immensely enlarges the audience.

When I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it had happened or not.

Ah! happy years! once more who would not be a boy!

I remember my youth and the feeling that will never come back any more - the feeling that I could last forever, outlast the sea, the earth, and all men.

Houses are the abiding joys; they are the most emotion-stirring of all things. An automobile is regarded with fond affection, a typewriter becomes an inseparable companion, clothes can stir sentimentality, and the bit of bric-a-brac is a toy one would weep to see torn away — but houses are real, deep, emotional things.

Luella Clark, April Days, 1904

My streets, my cistern. My old house. Its beams, floorboards and staircase creaked slightly, almost imperceptibly, with a dry, uniform, almost constant cracking sound. What's wrong? Where does it hurt? It seemed to be complaining of aches in its bones, in its centuries-old joints.

Childhood is the one story that stands by itself in every soul.

Even when it stands vacant the past is never empty.

Kod ljudi koji nam postanu bliski mi sve te pojedinosti prvog dodira sa njima obi?no zaboravljamo; izgleda nam kao da smo ih vazda znali i kao da su oduvek sa nama bili. Od svega toga u se?anju iskrsne ponekad samo neka nepovezana slika.

He never even felt how countless petty circumstances were fusing together to create an imperceptible but powerful stream that would carry him back into that life which he had left as a child in the slums of San Giusto in Trieste, right back into the world of ugly squalor and besetting vice from which he had run with all his strength for thirty years and which, for a long time now, he had believed was behind him.

They say that you can never go home again. You look for everything to be the same and when you find that things have changed, you are left reeling, crestfallen and dazed.

You have nothing to be embarrassed about. Life would be awfully dull if we could look back without regretting at least one affair.