Quotes About Confession

As soon as he had trawled through the confession, he must have realized how flimsy

This is the way confessing works—once you start, you can't stop.

The good gringo asked Lupe if she forgave him for sleeping with her mother. "Yes," Lupe said, "but we can't ever get married.

Nothing draws us closer to one another than the degree to which we face our deepest shame openly in one another's company. Coleridge and Wordsworth dreaded such self-exposure; we adore it. What we want is to feel known, warts and all—the more warts, the better. It is the great illusion of our culture that what we confess to is who we are.

We easily enough confess in others an advantage of courage, strength, experience, activity, and beauty; but an advantage in judgment we yield to none.

Believe it in your heart; say it with your mouth. That is the principle of faith. You can have what you say.

It is not as a child that I believe and confess Jesus Christ. My hosanna is born of a furnace of doubt.

Not to follow the advice of our confessor is pride and a want of faith.

Faith is not only in the heart; it should be put into words.

The poem is a confession of faith.

Fear is a natural occurrence. We often fear confessing our feelings because we have a greater fear-the fear of rejection. But, if we feel so strongly about that one person we need to find out how they feel on our own. It is not up to others to set us up, rather, it is up to us. Remember... it takes two to tango... and someone has to lead.

I love you, I mean like I am in love with you. I've never in my life ever felt this way towards anyone. I know this sounds crazy, but before I met you, my life was a complete mess. You truly helped me be myself, and I love you for that. But all I can say is that I'm a total loser, and you deserve better. My love for you will never matter, just like I never will.

How did it happen?" There was a piece of me that shouted its alarm: if you speak he will turn gray and hate you. But I pushed past it. If he turned gray, then he did. I would not go on anymore weaving my cloths by day and unraveling them again at night, making nothing. I told him the whole tale of it, each jealousy and folly and all the lives that had been lost because of me.

That was another thing about him. He made you want to spill your secrets.

That is how it works, Circe. I tell Father that my sorcery was an accident, he pretends to believe me, and Zeus pretends to believe him, and so the world is balanced. It is your own fault for confessing. Why you did that, I will never understand.

Yes," he said. "That is how it works, Circe. I tell Father that my sorcery was an accident, he pretends to believe me, and Zeus pretends to believe him, and so the world is balanced. It is your own fault for confessing. Why you did that, I will never understand.

I understood now the disgust in my father's eye. His moron son, confessing all. I recalled how his jaw had hardened as I spoke. He does not deserve to be king.

Dovrei forse prenderti come esempio e rinnegare ogni cosa? - Sì. Funziona proprio così, Circe. Io dico a nostro padre che la mia magia è stata un caso, lui finge di credermi e Zeus finge di credere a lui, e così il mondo torna in equilibrio. La colpa è tua, per aver confessato. Perché tu l'abbia fatto, non lo capirò mai.

Deep in my heart I'm concealing things that I'm longing to say. Scared to confess what I'm feeling - frightened you'll slip away.

Eventually I confess to a friend some details about my weeping—its intensity, its frequency. She says that she thinks we sometimes weep in front of a mirror not to inflame self-pity, but because we want to feel witnessed in our despair. (Can a reflection be a witness?)

and so I took hers. I did. And no one ever worked it out, so I suppose

a girl comes to crouch in front of me and I see that she is unlacing my shoes and taking them off and I say to her, I took it, I took it, and I've never told anyone. The girl looks up at me and she titters. You tell us every day, she says. I know she is lying so I say, it was my sister's, you know. And she just turns to speak to someone over her shoulder and—

It's you Tempest I told her. Not her. It's been you all along. I'm sorry it took me so long to tell you.... I made her trust me to save you.

Prayer is a confession of one's own unworthiness and weakness