Quotes About Regret

a closeness that felt sorry and cheap the minute she walked out of the room.

it referred to intense mental suffering, deep remorse, extreme anguish, acute sorrow and the like.

Nagasaki was an embarrassment to the art of war

I was living, in short, on the edge of a landscape of vast shame.

She took a bite of cereal and forgot to taste it. She lost the taste somewhere between the time she put the food in her mouth and the regretful second she swallowed it.

He drank, gambled, drove his car down embankments, got fired, quit, retired, traveled in disguise to Coaltown where he paid a woman to speak Swedish to him as they screwed. It was the Swedish that enrage Babette, either that or his need to confess it, and she hit out at him - hit out with the backs of her hands, with her elbows and wrists. Old loves, old fears.

When I was nineteen, I told a thirty- year-old man what a fool I had been when I was seventeen. 'We were always,' he said glancing down, 'a fool two years ago.

Remarkably, the most common regret of the dying was this: they wish they'd had the courage to live a life true to themselves and not the life others expected of them.

My uncle told a great story with his life, but I think there was such a sadness at his funeral because his story wasn't finished. If you aren't telling a good story, nobody thinks you died too soon; they just think you died. But my uncle died too soon.

the most common regret of the dying was this: they wish they'd had the courage to live a life true to themselves and not the life others expected of them.

I didn't mean to hurt you. -You shouldnae have been able to. She blinked at that, but knew what he meant. -I suppose not, no. we're still strangers. More or less. -Only in the measure of time could we consider ourselved that. (Graham & Katie) Some Like It Scot

Your mother, was she clear in her mind until the end?' he asked, knowing it was invasive and cruel to do so. Because his mother had died years before her body did, Brunetti was unable to judge which sort of death was worse and for whom. In all these years, although he had asked many people who had lost a parent, he had never had an answer that would decide the case for him.

but all that you will have now, and for the rest of your lives, is loss and pain and the terrible sense that you somehow failed this boy. And no matter how deep your knowledge that you were not responsible for it, your certainty that you were will always be deeper and more absolute.

Again, she put her face in her hands and wiped away the years, then let them return and looked at him.

It's funny, but thinking back on it now, I realize that this particular point in time, as I stood there blinking in the deserted hall, was the one point at which I might have chosen to do something very much different from what I actually did. But of course I didn't see this crucial moment for what it actually was; I suppose we never do. Instead, I only yawned, and shook myself from the momentary daze that had come upon me, and went on my way down the stairs.

How quickly he fell; how soon it was over.

Forgive me, for all the things I did but mostly for the ones I did not.

It's a terrible thing, what we did," said Francis abruptly. "I mean, this man was not Voltaire we killed. But still. It's a shame. I feel bad about it." "Well, of course, I do too," said Henry matter-of-factly. "But not bad enough to want to go to jail for it." Francis snorted and poured himself another shot of whiskey and drank it straight off. "No," he said. "Not that bad.

Never do what you can't undo.

Sometimes when I saw him at a distance – fists in pockets, whistling, bobbing along with his springy old walk – I would have a strong pang of affection mixed with regret. I forgave him, a hundred times over, and never on the basis of anything more than this: a look, a gesture, a certain tilt of his head.

The problem (as I'd learned, repeatedly) was that thirty-six hours in, with your body in full revolt, and the remainder of your un-opiated life stretching out bleakly ahead of you like a prison corridor, you needed some fairly compelling reason to keep moving forward into darkness, rather than falling straight back into the gorgeous feather mattress you'd so foolishly abandoned.

Twelve years after Robin's death, no one knew any more about how he had ended up hanged from a tree in his own yard than they had on the day it happened.

I have only to glance over my shoulder for all those years to drop away and I see it behind me again, the ravine, rising all green and black through the saplings, a picture that will never leave me.

It's a terrible thing, what we did," said Francis abruptly. "I mean, this man was not Voltaire we killed. But still. It's a shame. I feel bad about it.