It is one of the paradoxes of American literature that our writers are forever looking back with love and nostalgia at lives they couldn't wait to leave.
I pray that the life of this spring and summer may ever lie fair in my memory.
When I say I hate nostalgia, I hate things set in the recent past where everything is shiny and new.
The memory of past troubles is pleasant. [Lat., Jucunda memoria est praeteritorum malorum.]
It's such a thrill when an adult comes up to me and says, 'I read your book as a child and really loved it.' That's a tremendous compliment.
How many people long for that "past, simpler, and better world," I wonder, without ever recognizing the truth that perhaps it was they who were simpler and better, and not the world about them?
Periods of nostalgia are impossible to predict or explain.
I think whatever generation you're in has a nostalgia for the generations past and the generations you weren't in.
