Quotes About Remorse

Dust balls lined the steps. A half-eaten sandwich sat atop the landing where someone had felt too sad to finish it.

My mother's advice was, don't lose time on useless emotions like anger, resentment, remorse, envy. Those, she said, will just sap time; they don't get you where you want to be.

Well, emotions like anger, remorse, and jealousy are not productive. They will not accomplish anything, so you must keep them under control. In the days when I was a flaming feminist litigator, I never said to judges who asked improper questions, "You sexist pig.

Sweat began to pour off me and the contents of my stomach–soft serve ice cream, peach schnapps, and a handful of wax potpourri I'd earlier mistaken for Gummi bears–roiled in an unholy stew. The smell of poached eggs was overwhelming. Without benefit of loafers or coat, I ran outside to vomit in a snowbank. All I could think the entire time was, "Nancy Reagan was right." After that, I just said no to smoking pot, and, for quite a while, poaching eggs.

sitting by a lamp more often brings / Not peace, but other things. / Beyond the light stand failure and remorse / Whispering Dear Warlock-Williams: Why, of course—

Didn't say," Mr. Sullivan said, pretending the deep-fryer knobs needed fiddling with. "I'm really sorry about what happened to your friends.

I owed the greater apology, but at the same time I knew that was done was done, that no matter what I said now I would never be able to make it right.

Suddenly he imagines the house where Bridget's husband lives alone, longing for her, with his unfaithful wife's name on the mailbox, her lipstick beside his shaving things. Only then does he feel guilty.

In luck or out the toil has left its mark: That old perplexity an empty purse, Or the day's vanity, the night's remorse.

I have half a conscience to go ahead and do it, and feel guilty afterwards

Guilt is regret for what weíve done. Regret is guilt for what we didnít do.

Dyspepsia is the remorse of a guilty stomach.

Regret is a form of punishment itself.

I failed her. And she's out of my life. I don't even know where she's living. What she's doing to get through the days. And I miss her. Every single day, I miss her.

I've caused you pain, and I'm sorry for it,' she said. 'But perhaps that pain will keep you from forgetting me.

Al lettore Questo libro non è un'opera di fantasia. È un colloquio dell'autore con suo fratello morto. L'autore, scrivendo, cercava consolazione, non altro. Egli ha il rimorso di avere appena intuita la spiritualità del fratello, e troppo tardi. Queste pagine si offrono quindi come una sterile espiazione.

Grief is not as heavy as guilt, but it takes more away from you.

I wish I could say I felt guilty for what I did. I don't.

Unfortunately, by then, he had already seen the last of his beloved elephant Bandoola. The great tusker had been killed before war's end, in circumstances that would haunt Williams for the rest of his life. It was, he would always maintain, nothing short of murder

If what remained of the night had a scent, it'd be heavy ash and cheap perfume. If it had weight, it'd be a hangover. If it had emotion, it'd be regret.

what terrible pain—the pain of what I had not done, of what I had lost because I had not done all of that which I had not done. Whatever it was, I had no idea, I knew only that I had not done it.

Shame is the fruit of my vanities, and remorse, and the clearest knowledge of how the world's delight is a brief dream.

We didn't have sense enough to take care of it. Now it's torn. And the artist is dead.

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