Quotes About Regret

No, you never get any fun out of the things you haven't done.

This is the saddest story I have ever heard.

Edward ought, I suppose, to have gone to the Transvaal. It would have done him a great deal of good to get killed.

She warned him that, if he got killed, she should cut down the great cedar at the south-west corner of Groby. It kept all the light out of the principal drawing-room and the bedrooms above it.... He winced: he certainly winced at that. She regretted that she had said it. It was along other lines that she desired to make him wince.

Fall is nature's grace time; giving you a chance to put things in order, for the dying. And so, when you put things in order, you sort out all you must do … and all you have not done. It is a time for remembering … and regretting, and wishing you had done some things you have not done … and said some things you had not said. I

At which point I grew old and it was like ripping open the beehive with my hands again. At which point I conceived a realm more real than life. At which point there was at least some possibility. Some possibility, in which I didn't believe, of being with her once more.

Hé ! Dieu, se j'eusse étudié Ou temps de ma jeunesse folle, Et à bonnes mÅ"urs dedié, J'eusse maison et couche molle. Mais quoi ? je fuyoië l'école, Comme fait le mauvais enfant. En écrivant cette parole, À peu que le cÅ"ur ne me fend.

The same day, he took Sara out and bought her a great many beautiful clothes—clothes so grand and rich that only a very young and inexperienced man would have bought them for a mite of a child who was to be brought up in a boarding-school. But the fact was that he was a rash, innocent young man, and very sad at the thought of parting with his little girl, who was all he had left to remind him of her beautiful mother, whom he had dearly loved.

She is my mother," said Colin complainingly. "I don't see why she died. Sometimes I hate her for doing it.

At that moment a very good thing was happening to her...she had found out what it was to be sorry for someone.

This was the wrong Magic-to begin by saying too late.

So taking it, she stood among the dried, withered things and looked in tender regret at them.

Granny sat down on the step and stared off into the trees. That girl right there, she was my only child. I have lost two husbands, one by death, the other by divorce, and I have lost my parents and my brothers and sisters. But nothing ever pierced me to the core like that little girl's dying. I know it wasn't your daddy's fault. I know I messed up by filling a report to Social Services. Is that what you want to here? Is that what it takes for you not to be mad at me?

I wanted him to hold me, to take care of me. To make the pain dissolve away. I know that this was part of what had ruined everything but I wanted it once more anyway.

Sylvie wishes the anti-depressants had been around when she was in her early twenties, not only to rescue her from the dark tunnels that came when her brother first got sick, but also to keep her from fucking all those assholes.

Once she was standing by her locker and her puka shells broke and scattered and she made a joke about it but he could tell she was upset. He wanted to buy her some more. He wanted to give her a million strands of little nesting polished shells, and tropical flowers and ice creams and lemonades and a pale blue surfboard to teach her to surf on and anything else she wanted. Instead he let his checkered Vans step on one of the rolling shells and crush it.

I still can't talk about it," he said "Duck." Dirk touched his cheek "I remember, later, my mom trying to run into the water and I'm trying to hold her back and her hair and my tears are so bright that I'm blind. I knew she would have walked right into the ocean after him and kept going. In a way I wanted to go too.

My baby brother would never call Hex soft. Not Hex. And not me, either. Not anymore. Not any fucking more.

Henry was right, we should have listened to him, Dad would sob.

Sometimes only in retrospect do we realize that we have wasted our best years looking for a lost, inappropriate first love, that our life-changing passion for a particular person was no more than the desire to finally kiss the crooked lower lip of an elementary school principal or the boy on whom we had an unrequited childhood crush.

The eyes of someone you kill are immortal, if they face you at the fatal instant. They have a terrible black color. They shake you more than the streams of blood and the death rattles, even in a great turmoil of dying. The eyes of the killed, for the killer, are his calamity if he looks into them. They are the blame of the person he kills.

But did I ever get over her? She came to symbolize everything I wanted and would never have.

How ashamed most of us would be, if we were reminded of some past behavior, some attitude that we maintained while under the delusion that we were in love—and were loved in return.

She told me the French expression [Esprit de l'escalier]—the spirit of the staircase—for the voice that catches up with you, minutes after the fact, to make fun of whatever you said and come up with the perfect answer you didn't think of. We even had our own code phrase: SOS, we called it.