Quotes About Regret

Don't waste your one beautiful life," Vivien said softly.

Grief made people guilty. Guilty for being five minutes late, for taking the wrong streetcar, for ignoring a couph or sleeping too soundly. Guilt and grief went hand in hand.

I want her back" I said "I want HIM back"~Charlie

Letting a cat out of the bag is a lot easier than putting it back.

I wouldn't have done that to you"—Edward looks at his uncle and then over at Shay; this applies to her too—"because I know what it's like to be left behind.

Edward wasn't supposed to leave Jordan, though. They were meant to age together. That loss continues to be spiked with pain; it will never be soothed. And he can see, objectively, that Shay's life without him would have been woven with different moments, friends or lack of friends, different fights with Besa, different books and different struggles.

She had screwed up, not him. It made her sad that her vast experience, even her marathon dances with men, hadn't left her any the wiser.

When he woke up in the hospital, dry, and saw Sylvie on a chair next to him, his first thought was that he'd failed. The fact that he had failed meant he had to continue to walk forward with his life history--his mistakes--slung over his shoulders like a heavy backpack. This fact exhausted him, but he was too tired to reject it.

Sylvie was being punished for the choice she'd made twenty-five years earlier. Even

Emily gazed long on the splendours of the world she was quitting, of which the whole magnificence seemed thus given to her sight only to increase her regret on leaving it; for her, Valancourt alone was in that world; to him alone her heart turned, and for him alone fell her bitter tears.

Words said can never be recalled. So it is best, oftimes, not to speak too quickly. Yet words left unsaid are worse. We wear them like weights around our hearts.

Looking back, we see it is often casual choices which chart a path to tragedy.

That was a time when only the deadcould smile.

The evening sky is gold and vast. I'm soothed by April's cool caress. You're late. Too many years have passed, - I'm glad to see you, nonetheless. Come closer, sit here by my side, Be gentle with me, treat me kind: This old blue notebook – look inside – I wrote these poems as a child. Forgive me that I felt forsaken, That grief and angst was all I knew. Forgive me that I kept mistaking Too many other men for you.

Forgive me that I felt forsaken, That grief and angst was all I knew. Forgive me that I kept mistaking Too many other men for you.

But I am not allowed to forget The taste of the tears of yesterday.

How many poems did I not write? They hang in the air around me, a weird choir, And some day May suffocate me...

Will you forgive me these November days?

Seaside gusts of wind, And a house in which we don't live, And the shadow of a cherished cedar In front of a forbidden window... Perhaps there is someone in this world To whom I could send all these lines. Well then! Let the lips smile bitterly And a tremor touch the heart again.

I, the half-mad mourner of buried days

Oh, quantos espetáculos perdi, quantas vezes o pano ergueu-se e caiu sem mim. Quantos de meus amigos nunca encontrei uma só vez em toda a minha vida, (...)

Place down the poison right before me To take my voice out of my chest And wash away my shameful glory Into the gleaming nothingness.

The earthly glory is like smoke, I wanted much more than this. In all my lovers I evoked The feelings of joy and bliss. One is still in love somewhere With a friend from long ago, The other stands in the city square,- A statue of bronze in the snow.

Oh, how often you'll remember The sudden pain of unnamed longing — Anna Akhmatova, from "I'll erase this day from your memory," trans. A. S. Kline, White Flock (Hyperborea, 1917)