Quotes About Regret

Why didn't my mother ever tell me about you?" I asked my aunt. "Because I was a bad guy," my aunt said, looking directly at me. Her expression wasn't at all far away anymore. Her mouth was closed, but I could picture her missing tooth. My aunt was right: now that she'd said she was a bad guy, I wanted to know more. I wanted to know exactly how and why. "All right," I said instead, and we changed the subject.

I was so mad at her, and I didn't know what to say. Apparently, when you're mad at someone and you don't know what to say, you say something you don't mean and you hope you're not made to regret it. "If I go home," I said, "I'm not coming back.

Jesse couldn't picture a more desolate setting to meet his end. He watched the water drops gather and slide down the windshield, remembered how as a child he'd pretend they were eating each other, tried to pretend he was sitting in the back of his daddy's car now heading over to Grandma's for dinner.

You killed my Booka," she hissed. "I loved my Booka.

Beyond doubt, my love for her was one of the purest, most romantic things in my life. Friendship for her? If she were healthy, strong? No — her way of taking life would be impossible for me. Entirely impossible. We would have talked to each other as though shouting from different rooms. And yet I feel regrets. If I could cancel it all out, and never possess her soul?

To regret the exchange of earthly pleasures for the joys of heaven, is as if the groveling caterpillar should lament that it must one day quit the nibbled leaf to soar aloft and flutter through the air, roving at will from flower to flower, sipping sweet honey from their cups, or basking in their sunny petals.

The lives of the older Da Silvas were empty and sad. They mourned the Slave Trade as a lost Golden Age when their family was rich, famous and white. They were worn down by rheumatism and the burdens of polygamy.

So much so that on the night Henry was electrocuted, his last words were that all of his life, he'd gotten it wrong. His parents had taught him wrong, that Black people were the enemy. And he'd had to come to death row to learn what love was.

To spend time is to pass it in a specified manner. To waste time is to expend it thoughtlessly or carelessly. We all have time to either spend or waste and it is our decision what to do with it. But once passed, it is gone forever.

Now young faces grow sad and old and hearts of fire grow cold We swore blood brothers against the wind I'm ready to grow young again

Jane hoped that it had all turned out okay for the woman in the end, and that she'd been nice and dead and buried before she realized what her way of life had done to her planet.

We had a lot of chances to take steps to save our world, and we blew them all, Jane. All of them. We were greedy and stupid and shortsighted, and we threw all our chances away.

They never forget what they can't have

His unlived life worried him, tortured him, turning round and round inside him like an animal in a cage. In Dodo's body, the body of a half-wit, somebody was growing old, although he had not lived; somebody was maturing to a death that had no meaning at all.

When one door closes, another door opens; but we often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door, that we do not see the ones which opens for us. - Alexander Graham Bell

Sacrifice is at the heart of repentance. Without deeds, your apology is worthless.

I could've been a contender. I could've had class and been somebody. Real class. Instead of a bum, let's face it, which is what I am.

You don't understand. I could have had class. I could have been a contender.

I coulda' had class. I coulda' been a contender! But instead I got a one way ticket to Palookaville.

You—stink," I ended lamely, so sore I couldn't even try to be clever. "Okay, I stink," he said, walking off, "but someday you'll cut off an arm for one little whiff.

Sometime I hope I get a chance to be young before I get too old to enjoy it -Anne Shirley

Here, brush this old hair aside; it blinds me, that I seem to weep. Locks so grey did never grow but from out some ashes! But do I look very old, so very, very old, Starbuck? I feel deadly faint, bowed, and humped, as though I were Adam, staggering beneath the piled centuries since Paradise.

wife?—rather a widow with her husband alive! Aye, I widowed that poor girl when I married her

mockery! bitter, biting mockery of grey hairs, have I lived enough joy to wear ye; and seem and feel thus intolerably old?