Quotes About Regret

When it comes to the past, we all stack the deck.

George, I'm sorry!" he cried through his tears. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please, I'm suh-suh-SORRY—" And then they were around him, his friends, and no one lit a match, and someone held him, he didn't know who, Beverly maybe, or maybe Ben, or Richie. They were with him, and for that little while the darkness was kind.

All alcohol smells the same to me, of sadness and loss.

I have to remind myself that some birds aren't meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up does rejoice. Still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they're gone. I guess I just miss my friend.

This is how we bring about our own damnation, you know—by ignoring the voice that begs us to stop. To stop while there's still time.

Paul Edgecomb: What do you want me to do John? I'll do it. You want me to let you walk out of here and see how far you get? John Coffey: Now why would you want to do a foolish thing like that? Paul Edgecomb: When I die and I stand before God awaiting judgment and he asks me why I let one of HIS miracles die, what am I gonna say, that it was my job?

Sorrow for a wrong was better than nothing...but no amount of after-the-fact sorrow could ever atone for joy taken in destruction...

I loved you, Jake.

I told myself there was time. Of course, that's what we always tell ourselves, isn't it? We can't imagine time running out, and God punishes us for what we can't imagine.

and then woe is you, Pauly. Woe to the max.

I guess that means I won in the end, at least in a financial sense. But in my heart I stayed ashamed. I kept hearing Miss Hisler asking me why I wanted to waste my talent, why I wanted to waste my time, why I wanted to write junk.

Sorry is the KoolAid of human emotions.

How I wish you were fear.

Then, for no reason I could tell you, I tossed the spool again, even though Elaine had asked me not to. Maybe only because, in a way, him chasing a spool was like old people having their slow and careful version of sex - you might not want to watch it , you who are young and convinced that, when it comes to old age, an exception will be made in your case, but they still want to do it.

I denied Discordia and regret nothing; I have spat into the bodiless eyes of the Crimson King and rejoice; I threw my lot with the gunslinger and the White and never once questioned the choice.

Elizabeth's doze had deepened into real sleep. Once she might have been young and beautiful. Once she might have been some young man's dream baby. Now she was snoring with her mostly toothless mouth pointed at the ceiling. If there's a God, I think He needs to try a little harder.

But it is perhaps not such a good idea to look back — all the stories say so. Look what happened to Lot's wife. Best not to look back. Best to believe there will be happily ever afters all the way around — and so there may be; who is to say there will not be such endings?

The fucking you got was never worth the screwing you took.

Three heavy blows boxed him low in the back. He saw a splash of red hit the door and had time to think, 'We should have remembered the body armor.' Then he crumpled, still holding onto the knob with one hand as the world rushed away from him. Everything he was and everything he'd ever known diminished to a single burning-bright point of light. Then it went out. His hand slipped off the knob. He died on his knees, leaning against the door.

Same shit, different day, he thinks, but now the joy is gone and the sadness is back, the sadness that feels like something deserved, the price of some not-quite-forgotten betrayal.

They say bachelors have all the fun. Not so. You just get old and full of sand, nasty.

She felt like someone who drowns remembering what it was like to still be on the boat, so calm and at ease, so carelessly safe

Later on in life, you might wish that the good things which all befall in your one special year had spread themselves out a little more.

Sometimes, dead is bettah - Jud Crandall, Pet Sematary