Quotes About Nostalgia

Adulthood is when the ghosts of childhood appear.

A quilt will warm your body and comfort your soul.

We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it...

People seem to get nostalgic about a lot of things they weren't so crazy about the first time around.

We all have in our hearts a secret place where we keep, free from the contact of the world, our sweetest remembrances.

"You must love this place very much," said Miss Fenn... "So many homes are like twenty others. But this is unique, and you seem to know every cranny of it. I dare say you could never love another home so well." "Oh, I carry it with me," said Deronda... "To most men their early home is no more than a memory of their early years... The image is never marred. There's no disappointment in memory, and one's exaggerations are always on the good side."

#WhenIWasYourAge: It took a week to learn whether your photos came out okay.

A photograph is memory in the raw.

Photographs are wordless history.

A photograph gives relief to the banished and absent lover.

Just as pieces of material stitched together in a quilt warm our bodies, scrapbooks bind together memories to warm our hearts.

BABYLON — where I go dreaming When I weary of to-day, Weary of a world grown grey.

It begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It is never a thought to begin with. It is at its best when it is a tantalizing vagueness. It finds its thought and succeeds, or doesn't find it and comes to nothing.

I look back on it as if through rainbows, the bit of sunshine hers, the tears my own.

The Summer's gone, — how did it go?

So I dreamed. Aye one remembers With a sigh those dear Septembers; And I start, as well I may: I have wasted half a day.

September... dearest month of all to pensive minds!

Daily, with her school-books in her satchel, this little cherub passed the quaint old bell tower, always skipping merrily along and warbling a plaintive air.

There is hardly an American male of my generation who has not at one time or another tried to master the victory cry of the great ape as it issued from the androgynous chest of Johnny Weissmuller, to the accompaniment of thousands of arms and legs snapping during attempts to swing from tree to tree in the backyards of the Republic.

De laatste persoon die zich mij herinnert als kind is heengegaan, zei ik tegen mijzelf. En toen pas begon ik te huilen, als een kind.

There is a simple life, a life in solitude, which I had grown unused to. Eating bread at a wooden table, gathering up the crumbs and tossing them to the sparrows. Slowly peeling an apple with a pocketknife and realizing that this gesture exactly re-creates your father's gesture, which re-creates the gesture of your grandfather's. The place is not the same, nor the time, nor the hand. But the gesture remembers.

the roasted-paper smell of very old books, and the seared ink of photocopied pages.

The past is our only real possession in life. It is the one piece of property of which time cannot deprive us; it is our own in a way that nothing else in life is. In a word, we are our past; we do not cling to it, it clings to us.

Of course!" he said foolishly. "Then I wish I had come sooner. I wish I had never gone—from you!" "Oh, Father, do you really? How many times I have wished that!" The blue eyes were full of wistful eagerness now. It had meant a great deal to her! Why had it? Was that her mother looking at him through her eyes? Was he going stark-staring crazy? It was Alice's look. Alice was looking through those eyes of her daughter as one might look through a window!