Harrison Ford Quotes

I hate nostalgia, I want nothing to do with it.

Nostalgia could be considered a disease because you're living now.

I'm not nostalgic. My memories are back here in my mind.

I'm terribly nostalgic, but I'm with the Elizabethans who thought nostalgia was a disease. It's a dangerous place to be because you can get caught up in it.

I've always been hopelessly stuck in the present.

I don't have a great nostalgia for the past.

I don't do nostalgia. The phrase 'the good old days' never passes my lips.

I cry whenever I watch an emotional scene that I did, just because it brings me back to that moment. It's like, I remember being there; I remember feeling what I felt. It's really weird, right?

I tend to live in the past because most of my life is there.

I am not a nostalgic person.

The world is full of people whose notion of a satisfactory future is, in fact a return to the idealized past.

I think nostalgia used purely for the sake of emotional reminiscing is extremely boring.

I stopped feeling nostalgia for the moment because I imagine myself looking back on it from the future, which really freaks me out.

Do we always grind through the present, doomed to throw a gold haze of fond retrospect over the past?

We often live in the past a lot more than we probably realize.

The past is never where you think you left it.

I don't think of myself as a particularly nostalgic person.

Music evokes emotion and emotion can bring it's memory.

I love cameras but I find myself reluctantly taking pictures because what's past is past.

And there lies the horror: the past we remember is devoid of time. Impossible to reexperience a love the way we reread a book or resee a film.

That's one splendid thing about such affairs — it's so lovely to look back to them.

I hate nostalgia, it's laziness with prettier accessories.

When we dwell on the past, we tend to want to live there. When we dream of the future, we want to go there. Our dreams are where God paints a picture of a life waiting to be created.

Did you ever look back at some moment in your past and have it suddenly grow so vivid that all the intervening years seemed brief, dreamlike, impersonal—the motions of a May afternoon surrendered to routine?