Quotes About Nostalgia

You mean I have a home to go to as long as I don't go there?" He laughed. "Well, isn't it true? You don't have a home until you leave it and then, when you have left it, you never can go back." "I seem," I said, "to have heard this song before." "Ah, yes," said Giovanni, "and you will certainly hear it again. It is one of those songs that somebody somewhere will always be singing.

You will go home and then you will find that home is not home any more. Then you will really be in trouble. As long as you stay here, you can think: One day I will go home.

I have not thought of that boy—Joey—for many years; but I see him quite clearly tonight. It was several years ago. I was still in my teens, he was about my age, give or take a year. He was a very nice boy, too, very quick and dark, and always laughing. For a while he was my best friend. Later, the idea that such a person could have been my best friend was proof of some horrifying taint in me. So I forgot him. But I see him very well tonight.

You don't have a home until you leave it and then, when you have left it, you never can go back.

Well, isn't it true? You don't have a home until you leave it and then, when you have left it, you never can go back.

Mas não é isso mesmo? Você só passa a ter uma casa quando vai embora dela, e depois, quando foi embora, você nunca mais pode voltar.

She was responding to him with parts of herself that had been buried so long she had forgotten they existed. In his office that morning, when he shook her hand, she had suddenly felt a warmth of affection, of nostalgia, of gratitude even—and again in the lobby—he had somehow made her feel safe. It was his friendliness that was so unsettling. She had grown used to unfriendly people.

In his office that morning, when he shook her hand, she had suddenly felt a warmth of affection, of nostalgia, of gratitude even—and again in the lobby—he had somehow made her feel safe. It was his friendliness that was so unsettling. She had grown used to unfriendly people.

Our sole concern with the long dead is aesthetic

in the summer of 1845 Edward Little was sixteen years old and restless in his blood.

America was never innocent. We popped our cherry on the boat over and looked back with no regrets. You can't ascribe our fall from grace to any single event or set of circumstances. You can't lose what you lacked at conception. Mass-market nostalgia gets you hopped up for a past that never existed. Hagiography sanctifies shuck-and-jive politicians and reinvents their expedient gestures as moments of great moral weight.

We men of this age are rotten with book-lore and with a yearning for the past.

I'd rather have the memories and be sad than to not have the memories at all.

Old King Cole was a merrie old soul, A merrie old soul was he. He called for his pipe and called for his bowl And toked away, mon, for his irie.

I miss everything. I miss talking to her, hearing about her day. I miss her voice all gravelly and smoky, I miss hearing her laugh, I miss getting her letters, writing her letters. I miss her eyes, and the smell of her hair, and the way her breath tasted. I fucking miss everything. I miss knowing she was around, because it helped me to know that she was around, someone like her existed. I guess most of all, I miss knowing I would see her again. I always thought I'd see her again.

If you're gonna cry, cry because of all the good times we had, and all the laughs, and all the fun shit we did, and cry because those memories make you happy.

I miss everything. I miss talking to her, hearing about her day. I miss her voice all gravelly and smoky, I miss hearing her laugh, I miss getting her letters, writing her letters. I miss her eyes, and the smell of her hair, and the way her breath tasted. I fucking miss everything.

He's gone, but my memory isn't and it won't be for a long time. It has always been a fault of mine. I hold my memory.

Why do we need time travel, when we already travel through space so far and fast? For history. For mystery. For nostalgia. For hope. To examine our potential and explore our memories. To counter regret for the life we lived, the only life, one dimension, beginning to end.

I used to sing songs and write with my uncle, Bill Owens.

All my grandparents and great aunts and uncle love 'Foyle's War.' They all lived through the war and love to see it reconstructed so authentically.

I used to have a silk dressing gown an uncle bought in Japan and when I came downstairs in it, my dad used to call me Davinia. There was never embarrassment about that kind of thing. My sister used to dress me up a lot. She thought I was a little doll.

My great uncle was in 'Dad's Army.' And I don't know if Americans will know that. It was a hugely popular show in England.

When I was growing up, I remember my uncle Bret 'Hitman' Hart having his own column in the Calgary Sun. To me, this was beyond cool.