Quotes About Confessions

The confessions can touch on every human emotion. They can be laugh-out-loud funny, for sure, they can be heart-breaking, they can be sexual or hidden acts of kindness, they can be romantic.

Rita switched gears to her favorite topic—sex. Her philosophy: What a mess, but so pleasurable. "Speaking of confessions, tell us, have you and Jack been intimate again?" I cringed. "When I had your cousins, the doctahs told us not to have relations with our husbands for six weeks!" "So we had to call our boyfriends!" Bernice quipped. "You stole my punch line!" Rita exploded.

Everyone has their weaknesses. Some people smoke. I collect stuffed penguins. If you won't tell, I won't.

Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of strange little girls screaming through their fingers. My patient sisters, always waiting for me. I scroll through our confessions and rants and prayers, desperation eating us one slow bloody bite at a time.

Books should be full of stuff you could never say to people in public.

peculiar, or sad, and yet still deserve a place within the circle of familial love. The parents would thus have created an invaluable wellspring of courage from which those children would eventually be able to draw to sustain the confessions and direct conversations of adult life. Rabih

Where all are guilty, no one is; confessions of collective guilt are the best possible safeguard against the discovery of culprits, and the very magnitude of the crime the best excuse for doing nothing.

There are, I believe, many more false confessions to murders than true confessions.

they talked, too, of their futures, as if they could shape the glittering course of their destinies with secret confessions offered like prayers to the room's benevolent hush.

Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.

In these random impressions, and with no desire to be other than random, I indifferently narrate my fact-less autobiography, my lifeless history. These are my Confessions, and if in them I say nothing, it's because I have nothing to say.

Through these deliberately unconnected impressions I am the indifferent narrator of my autobiography without events, of my history without a life. These are my Confessions and if I say nothing in them it's because I have nothing to say.

Nestas impressões sem nexo, nem desejo de nexo, narro indiferentemente a minha autobiografia sem factos, a minha história sem vida. São as minhas Confissões, e, se nelas nada digo, é que nada tenho que dizer. Fernando Pessoa.

Son mis Confesiones, y si en ellas nada digo, es que nada tengo que decir.

Envidio —pero no sé si envidio de veras— a aquéllos de quienes se puede escribir una biografía, o que pueden escribir su propia biografía. En estas expresiones sin continuidad ni deseo alguno de continuidad, narro con indiferencia mi autobiografía sin hechos, mi historia sin vida. Son mis Confesiones, y si en ellas nada digo, es que nada tengo que decir.

Shame cultures therefore do not provide for confessions, even to the gods. They have ceremonies for good luck rather than for expiation.

I was glad I'd chosen this time of day to meet. Broad daylight doesn't lend itself to intimate personal confessions.

It seems that such notions were the product of folklore, vivid dreams, and sheer confabulation—and confirmed by confessions elicited under the most gruesome torture

A torrent of language, a spring off the near-infinite stream of confessions he had harbored half his life, all of hers.

With increased awareness should come greater caution about how confessions are used at trial - and a greater willingness to overturn convictions when it becomes clear that a confession was untrue.

She only believed in intimacy and proximity, in confessions born in the darkness of a bedroom, in quarrels born of alcohol, in communions born of exhausting walks through the city. She only believed in those words which came like the confessions of criminals after long exposure to hunger, to intense lights, to cross-questioning, to violent tearing away of masks.

I divined her life at that moment. She only believed in intimacy and proximity, in confessions born in the darkness of a bedroom, in quarrels born of alcohol, in communions born of exhausting walks through the city. She only believed in those words that came like the confessions of criminals after a long exposure to hunger, to intense lights, to cross-questioning, to violent tearing away of masks.

The nights were mainly made for saying things you can't say tomorrow day.

There is a wonderful little passage in the Confessions of Saint Augustine, written around the year 400. He starts by describing his insatiable cravings for success in the eyes of others: "I panted after honors . . . boiling with the feverishness of consuming thoughts." (Every success addict can relate to this.) He then describes coming across a beggar in the streets of Milan, whom he secretly admired: "He was joyous, I anxious; he void of care, I full of fears.