Quotes About Nostalgia

whatever tongue we speak the old ghost asserts itself in dusky echoes

One of the things we do as poets, is to try to preserve experiences, people, places important to us, in an effort to save them from time's erasure.

Still, it is like a long hopeless homesickness my missing those young days. To me, they're like my own place that I have gone away from forever, and I have lived all the time since among great pleasures but in a foreign town. Well, O.K. Farewell, certain years.

That heartbreaking moment when you finish an amazing book, and you are forced to return to reality.

Edie didn't budge. She leaned her chin on her knees and felt sad. She was a big reader too, but she liked THE BOBBSEY TWINS or HONEY BUNCH AT THE SEASHORE. She loved that nice family life. She tried to live it in the three rooms on the fourth floor. Sometimes she called her father Dad, or even Father, which surprised him. Who? he asked.

produce an entire album, which became The Place I Love.

Somewhere, all the people we have loved and lost are still among us, in the house that we call history.

Like I say, this house is far too big for me anyway, and maybe it'll do my head good to get away from the memories of your Ma. Sometimes I still think that she's upstairs, in bed, and I have to go up just to make sure that she's not.' He paused, and then he said, almost inaudibly, 'She never is.

What we wish upon the future is very often the image of some lost, imagined past.

Il suono della fisarmonica arrivava fin laggiù; il motivo saltellante e voluttuoso richiamava alla danza, ma a volte si mutava il lamento, come stanco di gioia, come rimpiangendo il piacere che passa e gemendo per l'inutilità di tutte le cose: allora anche l'occhio melanconico delle giumente pareva pieno di una dolcezza nostalgica.

The things you loved as a boy, you want them around you when you're an old man. The Marvins, Black River, Dreamgarden.

The older I get, the more I appreciate my childhood. It was paradise.

Only in the campfire-stoked stories of Boy Scouts, bedtime tales baby-sitters employ to frighten bratty charges, or in the sweet delight of grandpas who never grew up, would the stories live on.

The children's happy cries rise and fall in the evening light as imperfect and irrevocable as the past, and he stands in the yard of his father's house, waiting, poised motionless on the frontier of the future, until it is too dark to see.

That was such a wonderful time, even in its strangeness and sadness-and life isn't the same now. It's wonderful, but it isn't the same.

Anyone who doesn't miss the past never had a mother.

I remember the cloud on its blue bicycle gliding over the leaves under the bare branches. You and I were walking. You wore your long green dress with the hem frayed so the loose threads seemed like tiny roots. We were holding hands when my hand became a yellow scarf and you stood waving it slowly. from "Daffodil Poem

predictable Christmas standards

If you're yearning for the good old days, just turn off the air conditioning.

I don't have a photograph, but you can have my footprints. They're upstairs in my socks.

I have vivid memories of going to Pizza Hut and enjoying a thin crust pizza and a jug of Pepsi, and, getting high stacks of buttermilk pancakes with syrup.

Memories are hunting horns Whose sound dies on the wind.

I hibernated in my past.

C'était et je voudrais ne pas m'en souvenir c'était au déclin de la beauté...