Quotes About Regret

Todo cambia. El truco está en entregarse por completo, vivir el momento y, cuando haya pasado, no tener de qué arrepentirse ni volver la vista atrás. Ser consciente de que pasará y no sufrir por ello. Que sea lo que tenga que ser.

What hurts the most Was being so close And having so much to say And watching you walk away And never knowing What could have been And not seeing that loving you Is what I was tryin' to do

What hurts the most, is being so close. And having so much to say, then watching you walk away...

here it was the whole world wrapped inside my arms And I let it all slip away

In his play "Long Day's Journey into Night, " Eugene O'Neill has one of his characters utter a powerful statement toward the end of her life: "None of us can help the things life has done to us. They are done before you realize it and once they are done, they make you do other things, until at

We became less than what we were meant to be.

From the outer edge of his life, looking back, there was only one remorse, and that was only that he wished to go on living.

Mr. Montag, you are looking at a coward. I saw the way things were going a long time back. I said nothing. I am one of the innocents who could have spoken up and out when no one would listen to the 'guilty,' but I did not speak and thus became guilty myself.

That's sad, said Montag, quietly,(referring to The Hound) because all we put into it is hunting and finding and killing. What a shame if that's all it can ever know.

Go home.' Montag fixed his eyes upon her, quietly. 'Go home and think of your first husband divorced and your second husband killed in a jet and your third husband blowing his brains out, go home and think of the dozens of abortions you've had, go home and think of that and your damn Caesarian sections, too, and your children who hate your guts! Go home and think how it all happened and what did you ever do to stop it? Go home, go home!' he yelled.

I'll be darned! said Douglas. I never thought of that. That's brilliant! It's true. Old people never were children! And it's kind of sad, said Tom, sitting still.There's nothing we can do to help them.

Memories, as my father once said, are porcupines. To hell with them! Stay away from them! They make you unhappy. They ruin your work. They make you cry

From this outer edge of his life, looking back, there was only one remorse, and that was only that he wished to go on living. Did all dying people feel this way, as if they had never lived? Did life seem that short, indeed, over and done before you took a breath? Did it seem this abrupt and impossible to everyone, or only to himself, here, now, with a few hours left to him for thought and deliberation?

most men jump at the chance to give up everything for nothing. There's nothing we're so slapstick with as our own immortal souls.

I don't belong with you. I've been an idiot all the way

You should've thought of that before becoming a fireman. Thought! he said. Was I given a choice? I was raised to think the best thing in the world is not to read. The best thing is television and radio and ball games and a home I can't afford and, Good Lord, now, only now I realize what I've done. My grandfather and father were firemen. Walking in my sleep I followed them.

Mr. Montag, you are looking at a coward. I saw the way things were going, a long time back. I said nothing. I'm one of the innocents who could have spoken up and out when no one would listen to the 'guilty,' but I did not speak and thus became guilty myself. And when finally they set the structure to burn the books, using the firemen, I grunted a few times and subsided, for there were no others grunting or yelling with me, by then. Now, it's too late.

The scythe fell and lay in the grass like a lost smile.

Montag wanted to fly near the sun and now that he's burnt his damn wings, he wonders why

She was too wonderful a character to be allowed to die and I realize now that I should have allowed her to appear at hte end of my book. [Ray writes about the character Clarisse]

Mr. Montag, you are looking at a coward. I saw the way things were going, a long time back. I said nothing. I'm one of the innocents who could have spoken up and out when no one would listen to thèguilty,' but I did not speak and thus became guilty myself.

Have a drink? I don't need it, said Halloway. But someone inside me does. Who? The boy I once was, thought Halloway, who runs like the leaves down the sidewalk autumn nights. But he couldn't say that. So he drank, eyes shut, listening to hear if that thing inside turned over again, rustling in the deep bons that were stacked for burning but never burned.

I think I begin to see where everything fell apart. The books I read, jetsam to you. Junk. Why didn't we realize that ten years back? Lots of things you don't notice when you're- he slowed- in love.

And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn't crying for him at all, but for the things he did. I cried because he would never do them again