Quotes About Regret

Yesterday is gone forever. Make the most of today and tomorrow if you wish to make up for lost time.

The tragedy of growing old is not that one is old but that one is young.

What is opportunity to the man who can't use it? An unfecundated egg, which the waves of time wash away into nonentity.

There were dreams once upon a time, dreams now all but forgotten. On sad days I dust them off and fondle them nostalgically, with a patronizing wonder at the naivete of the youth who dreamed them.

I have yet to hear of anyone who, on his deathbed, wished he'd spent more time at the office.

This only is denied even to God: the power to undo the past.

On my way out I was even going to shake his hand, but I remembered just in time that I'd killed a man.

I would find myself getting deeply distressed if I lived in hindsight all the time.

Lost time can never be found again

I am dying. I haven't drunk champagne for a long time.

Redeem the misspent time that's past, And live this day as 'twere thy last.

Once, after finishing a picture, I thought I would stop for awhile, take a trip, do things-the next time I thought of this, I found five years had gone by.

Out, damned spot! out, I say! One: two: why, then 'tis time to do't. Hell is murky!

I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just beginning then. Would you?

They spend their time looking forward to the past.

MOST OF US have harbored a fantasy wherein we return to confront a lost first love, and, in that reunion, we have become better looking, thinner, richer, utterly desirable— so desirable that our lost love realizes instantly that he has made a terrible mistake.

Call me a sinner, Mock me maliciously: I was your insomnia, I was your grief.

You do not know just what you've been forgiven.

But Marisa already knew the answer and it was too late for recrimination. The chance of even a rational discussion of the problem was forever shut out of Mama's brain. A brutal bastard was steadily sucking the intelligence and the very life from the mother who had once been witty, wise and loving. The scourge had a name Marisa had come to equate with hell: Alzheimer's Disease.

All of life like a series of tableaux, and in the living we missed so much, hid so much, left so much undone and unsaid.

She is a prisoner in the amber of her own past.

She had filled her days mourning that shadow life, and it had no more meaning than the chattering of monkeys. Instead, these last few weeks, she had seen what might have been had she not felt perpetually done out of something better.

It was a puzzle to her, how eagerly she'd rushed into life when she was eighteen or twenty, and in what a desultory fashion it had dragged out ever since.

No matter what the police and the district attorney said, no matter what the papers wrote, no matter what people believed then and still believe, these years later, the truth is that I did not kill my mother. I only wished I had.