Best 1275 quotes in «guilt quotes» category

God knows we all have to at least try to justify our behavior so we don't feel too guilty about it later.

Gore Vidal, for instance, once languidly told me that one should never miss a chance either to have sex or to appear on television. My efforts to live up to this maxim have mainly resulted in my passing many unglamorous hours on off-peak cable TV. It was actually Vidal's great foe William F. Buckley who launched my part-time television career, by inviting me on to Firing Line when I was still quite young, and giving me one of the American Right's less towering intellects as my foil. The response to the show made my day, and then my week. Yet almost every time I go to a TV studio, I feel faintly guilty. This is pre-eminently the 'soft' world of dream and illusion and 'perception': it has only a surrogate relationship to the 'hard' world of printed words and written-down concepts to which I've tried to dedicate my life, and that surrogate relationship, while it, too, may be 'verbal,' consists of being glib rather than fluent, fast rather than quick, sharp rather than pointed. It means reveling in the fact that I have a meretricious, want-it-both-ways side. My only excuse is to say that at least I do not pretend that this is not so.

Gratitude, not guilt, as motivation is always His starting point, thus guilt as a motivation leads nowhere.

Grieve out your betrayal, mourn over everything that went astray, this is an important beginning step towards your healing.

Grieve your childhood and mourn the loss of those who failed you.

Guilt and misery shrink, by a natural instinct, from public notice: they court privacy and solitude: and even in their choice of a grave will sometimes sequester themselves from the general population of the churchyard, as if declining to claim fellowship with the great family of man; thus, in a symbolic language universally understood, seeking (in the affecting language of Mr. Wordsworth) ’ Humbly to express A penitential loneliness.

Guilt and Regret always pulls one down. They have an impact like that of gravity. They heavy you like few tons of concrete, Therefore, Instead of growing, moving on and learning from your mistakes, You will wine and dine with Would Have's and Could Have's.

Guilt, if cultivated in a Christian client, can render their Christianity worthless to themselves and others.

Guilt is a useless feeling. It's never enough to make you change direction--only enough to make you useless.

Guils is the greatest weapon vecause its cuts rarely heal and it aims for the heart

Guilt at least has a purpose; it tells us we’ve violated some ethical code. Ditto for remorse. Those feelings are educational; they manufacture wisdom. But regret—regret is useless.

Guilt feelings so often arise from accusations rather than from crimes.

Guilt is a destructive and ultimately pointless emotion

Guilt doesn’t stop you from doing something. It just stops you from enjoying it.

Guilt is an indulgence, it entangles you in the past.

Guilt is basically one of my superpowers. It’s been programmed into me from the moment I was old enough to know what it was.

...guilt is deserved only when the effort to resist evil is never made.

Guilt is never to be doubted.

Guilt can weigh you down; like being bound in lead chains in a deep murky lake, making you spend the rest of your life gasping for air.

Guilt doesn't follow the rules of time. Most things fade with time, regret, eyesight, memories. But guilt feeds on time, and as it feeds, it grows, and when it runs out of time, it begins to gnaw on the guilty.

Guilt is the toothache of the soul.

Guilt was a thorny carpet Laid on the ground I walked on. Repent and redeem, No vile soul feels a disesteem. Whispers filling my head, Too loud to ignore, Pills upon pills I swallowed them all, For a brief stolen moment, I dove into an ocean of a blissfully quiet oblivion. A hollow elm, A wingless butterfly, A shadow of what was once I.

Guilt addresses an external action while shame attacks the internal character!" EL

Guilt doesn't always make sense.

Guilt, fear, sin, doubt. Guilt, fear, sin, doubt. Guilt, fear, sin, doubt. That’s what religion is all about.

Guilt is a strong motivator, sometimes even stronger than love.

Guilt is motherfucker,... it takes everything motivation, aspiration and soul. (Kill Game 2015)

Guilt is not a condemntion. It’s a red flag that we are letting old wounds guide us when we would be better served trusting our inner wisdom.

Guilt: it comes in so many subtle forms. It's carbon monoxide for the soul.

Guilt loves the passive.

Guilt wears track shoes. Sprint, marathon, or cross-country, it doesn’t matter. It runs tireless to catch you, and it carries a sledgehammer.

Guilt, of course, is feeling bad about one's actions, but shame is feeling bad about oneself.

Guilt takes away the energy and strength and reduces a person’s productivity

Guilty people apologize and also take steps to avoid repetition. Shame, in contrast, is a more global emotion, which can emerge in response to the same kind of wrong act and violation of standards. It may develop earlier in life than guilt-- guilt requires more cognitive sorting capacity-- but above all it emphasizes self-abasement. It is the self that is at fault, not the commission of the act. This creates greater pain and intensity than guilt. A shamed person feels very bad indeed-- but also makes it more difficult to escape.

Guilt was written all over his face. He could see it in his reflection.

Günah kendi doğana karşı yaptığın her şeydir. Kendi varlığına karşı hissettiğin, inandığın ya da söylediğin her şey günahtır. Herhangi bir şey için kendini yargıladığında veya suçladığında kendi karşı olmuş olursun. Günahsız olmak bunun tam zıddıdır. Saflık, arılık (impeccable) kendine düşmanca davranmamaktır. Günahsız olmak demek davranışlarının sorumluluğunu üstlenmek ama kendini yargılamamak ve suçlamamak anlamına gelir.

Happiness is often curtailed by guilt.

He had condemned Sam for opening up to him and hadn’t even stopped himself long enough to ask why she would do so.

He began to feel overwhelmingly guilty for still being alive, while others continued to die around him.

He felt weighted down by guilt and regret for what might have been his last words to all of them.

He had lost the bright gods, and he had not been accepted by the dark. He was in a no soul’s land, and in its isolation his own soul was withdrawn, small and heavy as a stone within him, and about his evil deed. No wonder it could not take wing and make the heralding music. That was the whole of reality now, the little stone inside, and outside the cold, dark ravine and the inescapable watcher.

He had just compunction enough for having done nothing for his sisters himself, to be exceedingly anxious that everybody else should do a great deal.

He [Muffat] experienced a sense of pleasure mingled with remorse, the sort of pleasure peculiar to those Catholics whom the fear of hell spurs on to commit sin.

Henri held herself as if only her arms could keep her pieced together, and I saw that behind all her fake control—throwing herself at a teacher, carving our dad out of her heart—was something fragile. I wish we’d seen it sooner—my dad and Mr. Flynn, they had a responsibility to see it, to do better. Those moments were my sister spinning out.

Hence, it is quite conceivable that even the sense of guilt engendered by civilization is not recognized as such, but remains for the most part unconscious, or manifests itself as an unease, a discontent, for which other motivations are sought. The religions, at least, have never ignored the part that a sense of guilt plays in civilization. Moreover - a point I failed to appreciate earlier - they claim to redeem humanity from this sense of guilt, which they call sin. From the way in which this redemption is achieved in Christianity - through the sacrificial death of one man, who thereby takes upon himself the guilt shared by all - we drew an inference as to what may have been the original occasion for our acquiring this primordial guilt, which also marked the beginning of civilization.

He's following me... He needs to have a secret but he can´t help telling the heat is going out of me. The heart is going out of me, and though she cannot remember she cannot forget. Clutching a fistful of sand. What ties me to you is guilt. I crossed two rivers and wept by one I am the beast at the end of the rope Happy and free.

Here, in Lorrain's poisoned little jewel of a tale (“The Man Who Made Wax Heads”) the consummate achievement of decadent art is caught in miniature. The genius of the artist entangles perpetrators and victims in a sticky web of perverse delights, in which exploitation becomes collusion, the ripples of guilt spread outward, and the real criminal slips away. In the end, responsibility is lodged firmly with the consumer, forced – he must confess – by his own perverse desires, to buy into the values of this particularly black market.

Her sadness was an ecstasy, a guilt, an assignation.

He supposes he should be relieved. But part of him wishes for something else. Perhaps if she had grimaced at him, said something infantile, full of loathing and hate. An eruption of rancor. Perhaps that might have been better. Instead, a clean, diplomatic dismissal. And this note. Don't worry. You're not in it. An act of kindness. Perhaps, more accurately, an act of charity. He should be relieved. But it hurts. He feels the blow of it, like an ax to the head.

He was clearly not the murderer whom Hawksmoor was seeking, but it was generally the innocent who confessed: in the course of many enquiries, Hawksmoor had come across those who accused themselves of crimes which they had not committed and who demanded to be taken away before they could do more harm. He was acquainted with such people and recognised them at once - although they were noticeable, perhaps, only for a slight twitch in the eye or the awkward gait with which they moved through the world. And they inhabited small rooms to which Hawksmoor would sometimes be called: rooms with a bed and a chair but nothing besides, rooms where they shut the door and began talking out loud, rooms where they sat all evening and waited for the night, rooms where they experienced blind panic and then rage as they stared at their lives. And sometimes when he saw such people Hawksmoor thought, this is what I will become, I will be like them because I deserve to be like them, and only the smallest accident separates me from them now.