Quotes About Regret

He'd kill Newt. He'd shot his own friend in the head.

Into the cargo room. Down the ramp of the hatch door, into the brightness of day. They'd barely stepped off of it when squeals pierced the air and the slab of metal began to close. Alec lifted the Berg off the ground, blue thrusters roaring. Mark was barely holding onto his mind, but he felt a sudden, unbearable sadness. He'd never see the old bear again.

Mark wants to scream, to tell her not to do it. But it's too late. The woman pulls the trigger. The boat drives on.

That saving you was worth losing what we might've had.

You have a pretty nose. I really want a nose again.

All stone and dark wood, it had held up for the most part, though it now had a faded, sad look, as if losing its former occupants had stolen its soul away.

He felt another tremor of emotion as he saw the faces of Chuck and Newt and Teresa in his mind's eye. A

Se volteo para mirar justo en el momento en que comenzaba a llover, como si la tormenta hubiese decido finalmente echarse a llorar de vergüenza por lo que les había echo.

Alec lifted the Berg off the ground, blue thrusters roaring. Mark was barely holding on to his mind, but he felt a sudden, unbearable sadness. He'd never see the old bear again.

partner—is standing there, holding her gun. Mark slouches down, waiting for the barrage of bullets. But instead, he notices the woman aim the weapon at herself, the muzzle propped against the bottom of her chin. Mark wants to scream, to tell her not to do it. But it's too late. The woman pulls the trigger. The boat drives on.

It had been so close that day. If he'd known all that would come after, would he still have fought so hard to survive?

Ok then, Break your promise and I'll never forgive you.

KILL ME!" And then Newt's eyes cleared, as if he'd gained one last trembling gasp of sanity, and his voice softened. "Please, Tommy. Please." With his heart falling into a black abyss, Thomas pulled the trigger.

She was there. She'd been in his arms. They'd been together again. They'd kissed and he'd felt something he would've thought impossible. And now he was running away. Leaving her behind.

She turned and walked away, and Thomas sat there, hoping his face hadn't flushed bright red when he remembered her being close to him in the Underneath.

If everything they'd been insisting was true was in fact true, he didn't want to face his past even if he could.

I hated the place, Tommy. I hated every second of every day. And it was all … your … fault!

There was nothing in common, in the way he was lying, with any of the positions I had seen him in while he was alive, until I remembered the pose by the river in which I had most wanted to kill him. He now had that same relaxed, enjoying look of belonging anywhere he happened to be, and particularly in the woods.

Not a good man. Drinks too much in an uncreative way.

America was never innocent. We popped our cherry on the boat over and looked back with no regrets. You can't ascribe our fall from grace to any single event or set of circumstances. You can't lose what you lacked at conception.

Some men get the world, some men get ex-hookers and a trip to Arizona. You're in with the former, but my God I don't envy the blood on your conscience.

None has more frequent conversations with a disagreeable self than the man of pleasure; his enthusiasms are but few and transient; his appetites, like angry creditors, are continually making fruitless demands for what he is unable to pay; and the greater his former pleasures, the more strong his regret, the more impatient his expectations. A life of pleasure is, therefore, the most unpleasing life.

Bunch was always a rescue of sorts...whether from the confusion and regret of a hangover, the intolerable presence of a roommate, or just the general despair of Saturdays.

Who taught us to bow our heads while waiting for trains? to touch lumber without regret and sing privately or not at all? To invest the season with forgiveness and coax from it a hopeful omen? Lord knows the hope would heal this little fear. But who taught us to fear?