Quotes About Nostalgia

And memories, he knew, were not glass treasures to be kept locked within a box. They were bright ribbons to be hung in the wind.

First loves seldom end up being last loves,

I know you know the tale of Baby June You know the way she could deliver a tune She was a killer in a petticoat A little bit of everyone you adore... And if your baby let you down at night, Well Baby June would make it up alright And I was never happier Than in the arms and charms of her

So remembering is only one more way of being alone when the voice has gone everywhere in the dusk of the porches looking for the last thing to say.

In daylight we pick up our tinned rations and hike off, every artery and nerve of us, into the rest of our commemorative lives.

The past is closed up inside its own depressing little museum of faded styles and codes and anticipations; you can't re-enter it

Sometimes these days I almost think I can do without the present. The past is enough for me, it's enough for my life. Does that sound insane?

Some people accompany you like this in imagination, long after you've dropped any real connection with them

she had felt weightless and carefree, as if she could go back to a bright, hard, selfish time when she had only herself to think about.

Talking about the old days made Kate anything but nostalgic; actually, despite what everybody said about youth, most of her past made her shudder, in sheer disgust and in relief that she didn't have to live it over again.

There are some things that don't change much. I find the smell of a dish, or the way a certain spice is crushed, or just a quick look at the way something has been put on a plate, can pull me back to another place and time. I love those memories that seem so far away, yet you can hold them and carry them with you, even forget them, and then, with a single taste or hint or a smell, be chaperoned back to a beautiful moment.

A little longer, and we shall be in our true country, and our childhood's joys—those Sunday evenings, those outpourings of the heart—will be given back to us for ever!

The sense of smell can be extraordinarily evocative, bringing back pictures as sharp as photographs of scenes that had left the conscious mind.

Why she had to go I don't know, she wouldn't say I said something wrong Now I long for yesterday

Yesterday, All my troubles seemed so far away, Now it looks as though they're here to stay, Oh, I believe in yesterday

Tell me why my freshman year at Paloma was probably the most memorable year out of all them because everyone was actually excited to go to football games and go all out for spirt weeks and all that.

Ja, Erinnerung ist viel, ist alles. Und die hab ich nun und bleibt mir und kann mir nicht mehr genommen werden. Und ich fühle ordentlich, wie mir dabei leicht zumute wird.

Even today [in the narrator's time], an ancient lime tree can be seen here at the edge of the river valley; in spite of its completely hollow trunk its huge crown still sways in the wind. Here at that time the handsome couple would often be seen standing by it, hand in hand, looking out over the wide river valley while the summer wind blew through their blond hair, and in the evenings too when the cry of the wild swans could be heard as they flew down onto the water in the starlight.

The object of such historiography is to disconnect everyone from a real sense of a living past and a living culture.

I remember the neckcurls, limp and damp as tendrils,And her quick look, a sidelong pickerel smile.

My Papa's Waltz: The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy; But I hung on like death: Such waltzing was not easy. We romped until the pans Slid from the kitchen shelf; My mother's countenance Could not unfrown itself. The hand that held my wrist Was battered on one knuckle; At every step you missed My right ear scraped a buckle. You beat time on my head With a palm caked hard by dirt, Then waltzed me off to bed Still clinging to your shirt.

Everything that is remembered about the past is washed, and often drowned, in nostalgia, pride, illusions and passions of all kinds.

Pop-Tarts would be nice. Pop-Tarts and Tang.

Time. I'm afraid of time." She had never cared for nostalgia. There was a sadness to looking back, a reminder of time wasted. "Things happen too fast, without enough time to relish them or cherish them, or enjoy them as thoroughly as we should.