Quotes About Confession

L'unique confession sincère est celle que nous faisons indirectement—en parlant des autres. The only sincere confession is the one we make indirectly—when speaking of others.

The one sincere confession is the one we make indirectly - when we talk about other people.

The confessional? a rape of conscience perpetrated in the name of heaven. And that other rape, psychological analysis

I should have told her at the time. I could have taken a deep breath, looked away, and forced myself to say it.

Never kept a journal before. Fear of incrimination.

We should confess our sins to God, Torilla, but never, if it would hurt them, to other people. . . . If anyone must bear the consequences of a wrong action, it should be the person who had done it.

Every single time I confess my self-reliance and submit my life to God's will in a particular area, I am worshiping God--as surely as any sincere Israelite offering a lamb in obedience to God's plan.

I know what you want to hear, doctor, but I'm sorry, you're not going to pry some sordid confession out of me.

Medieval justice was scrupulous about holding proper trials and careful not to sentence without proof of guilt, but it achieved proof by confession rather than evidence, and confession was routinely obtained by torture.

I suddenly do want to. I don't know why. I don't understand it. I'm not even sniffing around the edges of understanding it, but suddenly I want more than anything in the world to tell her. [...] I want to tell her because I realize now that it's true: I love her and I need her to know, and if I don't say it now, I'll never say it, and it has to come from me.

I care not for the girdings of superstition, for superstition is the bitter enemy of knowledge & true morality. Yes; it has come to this! Men who openly confess that they can form no idea of God, & only know him through created things, of which they know not the causes, can unblushingly accuse philosophers of Atheism.

If we say it long enough eventually we're going to reap a harvest. We're going to get exactly what we're saying.

Biographical data, even those recorded in the public registers, are the most private things one has, and to declare them openly is rather like facing a psychoanalyst.

Confess and be hanged.

I do believe that when a man confesses to his neighbor and says he's sorry, he thinks more of him than he did before. You see, we all know we have done wrong, but we haven't usually confessed it. And it's a funny thing, but when the time comes when there's something he needs to repent of himself, he hesitates for fear of the shame of having to confess it. To me the shame lies in not confessing after you know you're in the wrong.

It is one of the poorest of human weaknesses that a man would be ashamed of saying he has done wrong instead of so ashamed of having done wrong that he cannot rest till he has said so. For the shame cleaves fast until the confession removes it.

To confess uprightness in one of the opposite party seemed to most men to involve treachery to their own.

Confession is not betrayal. What you say or do doesn't matter; only feelings matter. If they could make me stop loving you-that would be the real betrayal.

they had come to a time when no one dared speak his mind, when fierce, growling dogs roamed everywhere, and when you had to watch your comrades torn to pieces after confessing to shocking crimes.

Tell me, what did you think of me before that day I gave you that note?" He did not feel any temptation to tell lies to her. It was even a sort of love-offering to start off by telling the worst. "I hated the sight of you," he said. "I wanted to rape you and then murder you afterwards. Two weeks ago I thought seriously of smashing your head in with a cobble-stone.

I betrayed you,' she said baldly. 'I betrayed you,' he said.

You will have to get used to living without results and without hope. You will work for a while, you will be caught, you will confess, and then you will die. Those are the only results that you will ever see.

He paused and then said, as though the words were wrung out of him: 'O God, Mama, I've made such a mull of it! What am I to do?

I'm not a workaholic, but I was a bit manic, I have to confess.