Quotes About Regret

Hoy, aún no sé dónde llevarle unas flores a su tumba.

Aquellos que traicionan sus sueños pueden morir de insomnio.

His life was two lives now: the life he would have and the life he would forever wonder about.

But I think some people wait forever, and only at the end of their lives do they realize that their life has happened while they were waiting for it to start.

And because he felt like he might burst open and because he lacked the dexterity in English to say all that he was thinking--how in his estimation, the more you lived the more regret and longing you suffered, that life was a glorious catastrophe--Pasquale Tursi said, only, "Yes.

At peace? Who but the insane would ever be at peace? What person who has enjoyed life could possibly think one is enough? Who could live even a day and not feel the sweet ache of regret?

I asked him if he had bothered to have children. He said yes, he had children. I said why if this is the result. He said I beg your pardon. I said if it leads to this, where you're a skin bag full of putrescent failing organs, and time passes quickly, it passes so quickly, and he knew that, then why have kids.

I smell the wet black dirt and remember days in the garden, when it would have been possible to stand and run to my wife or stand and run to my son. But I did not do so. I concerned myself with parsley or yams or pulling weeds. I had so much and all at once. There is too much light in those thoughts. Light everywhere. It obliterates me. I recoil.

I am not simply missing one child who never grew, but two of them. I always know how old they'd be. What I do not know is who I might have been, had I become their mother.

Have you made your selections?" Um, yeah, Gray thought. I'll have the total body meltdown with a side of what-the-hell-was-I-thinking. She, evidently, will be having the sex-goddess pot pie.

God damn it, Billy.

All through life I've harbored anger rather than expressed it at the moment.

She will rue her lack of curiosity, her ability to see things only as she wanted to, for the rest of her life.

Standing at the grave, Marianne was suddenly aware of her own blindness; her dearest friends were like dreams she had woken from. How had she missed so much?

Benita set the letter down. Connie - her dear Connie, whom she had never even said good-bye to. Whom she had hated - really hated- for so long. But he had always been strong. He had lived his life on a plane of grand ideals and all-encompassing rights and wrongs. His view had been much longer than the trappings of his own life. And she had been the little mouse who could see no farther than her own nose, stumbling over roots and stones, oblivious to the oncoming storm.

I'm not a very good [father], I'm afraid," Martin said. "Ach." Marianne waved this away. "I'm sure you are." Sitting here on this weather-beaten porch, with its brittle railings and the dull pounding of the sea below, he felt a gray bloom of failure. This was why he had come to see [her]. She was the gardener of this ugly flower. She knew just how to turn his face to the sun.

Destructiveness is the outcome of unlived life.

PiÅŸmanl?k, özür dilemekten daha öte bir ÅŸeydir. güçlü bir duygudur. PiÅŸman olan bir kimse, kendisinden ve yapt??? ÅŸeyden utan?r. Gerçek piÅŸmanl?k ve onunla birlikte varolan utanma duygusu, daha önce yap?lm?? olan yanl??l?klar?n (suçlar?n) tekrarlanmamas?n? saÄŸlayan yegane insani duygudur. (Hayat? Sevmek)

Sooft in München in Konzert war, bei dem neue Werke von Ludwig Palffy aufgeführt wurden, kaufte sich Luiselotte Körner ein Billett, saß dann mit gesenktem Kopf in einer der letzten billigen Reihen und entnahm der Musik ihres geschiedenen Mannes, daß er kein glücklicher Mensch geworden war. Trotz seiner Erfolge. Und trotz seiner Einsamkeit.

but that's what mankind is like: they only prize what they no longer possess.

Regret is the most useless thing in the world. One cannot recall anything. And one cannot rectify anything. Otherwise we would all be saints. Life did not intend to make us perfect. Whoever is perfect belongs in a museum.

What is leave? – a pause that only makes everything after it so much worse.

What use is it to him now that he was such a good mathematician at school?

To-day we would pass through the scenes of our youth like travellers. We are burnt up by hard facts; like tradesmen we understand distinctions, and like butchers, necessities. We are no longer untroubled—we are indifferent. We might exist there; but should we really live there? We are forlorn like children, and experienced like old men, we are crude and sorrowful and superficial—I believe we are lost.