Best 2371 quotes in «regret quotes» category

Questions that begin ‘If I had/if I had not’ have no true answers. You can never know how your actions may have impacted Master Jason’s fate. And if you could know, that knowledge would not change the past. The only good that can come of these musings is that which you have already found: in taking the lessons of the past, such as they may be, to guide your choices in the present.

Quick decisions made in anger, usually end in regret.

Qui cherche et ne saisit pas ce qui s'offre ne le reverra jamais plus.

Q: When is the perfect time? A: Who can say, but probably somewhere between haste and delay - and it's usually most wise to start today.

Rarely do you regret what you have done nearly as much as what you have failed to do.

Reflecting is essential, but regret should not ground you in the past. It should make you grateful that you have a conscious mind that realized right from wrong. It should give you strength to wisely use your present to make your future better.

Reflection offers a retrospective exploration, a way to figure out how everything fits and connects now on your journey- and being done so without regret or remorse. Reflection is the birthplace of discernment, an insightful and awakening place that grants you to keep what you need and smartly sift away the rest.

Regret is a vehicle you choose to drive or leave behind on the hard shoulder of life.

Regret is not the same as guilt. It is expressed by: ‘I can’t believe I did that. It’s not like me. This is not how I am! How could I do such a thing?’ It means to see ourselves as the best we can be, and to be disappointed in not living up to that.

Regrets are a waste of time and waste of time brings about regrets. It's the best ironic cycle after life and death!

Regrets begin the moment we're comfortable with settling.

Regrets, Blacksmith, make poor currency. You can't but back with them what you most desire.

Regret and pangs of conscience are feelings we assign to others to make the world seem a little more fair, to even things out a little and provide consolation. In reality, those who do wrong to us never think about us as much as we think about them, and that is the ultimate irony: their deeds live inside us, festering, while they live out in the world, plucking peaches off trees, biting juicily into them, their minds on things lovely and sweet.

Regret is a self-inflicted emotional scar.

Regret is good. It proves you have a conscience.

Regret is like a mental parasite that alters your behavior.

Regrets, it seems, are easy to realise when you're dying.

Regret and remorse” is a dialectic issue about what has been done, about what should have been done and about what should not have been done. ( “Island of regret. Island of remorse” )

Regret drives us to repentance, and repentance leads us to God.

Regret is a waste of time.

Regret is one the scariest words in any language and success is one of the most beautiful ones. What are you waiting for?

Regret rules over the past, hope rules over the future.

Regrets are self-created and cause for further regrets.

Regret, albeit raw and relentless, is almost always unremarkable.

Regret is her companion and the one who whispers to her often. She has even let hope die and that brings about despair.

Regret is more than inevitable, it's a constant companion. A relationship that becomes comfortable. Regret never wants to break up.

regret is mostly caused by not having done anything.

Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read to the end just to find out who killed the cook. Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark, in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication. Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot, the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones that crimped your toes, don’t regret those. Not the nights you called god names and cursed your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,b chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness. You were meant to inhale those smoky nights over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches. You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still you end up here. Regret none of it, not one of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing, when the lights from the carnival rides were the only stars you believed in, loving them for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved. You’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake, ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied of expectation. Relax. Don’t bother remembering any of it. Let’s stop here, under the lit sign on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.

Regrets are useless, " the Fool replied. "All you can do is start from where you are.

Regrets won't change anything. Don't Reject yourself. Just Refrain from what you did badly; repent and move on.

Regret celebrates the things you did wrong. Why focus on the past when the only place you have any power is right here, right now.

Regret is not when you could not finish what you started but regret is when you do not start what you could have finished.

Regret, Joss. Regret does awful things to a person.

Regret swallows broken men whole. Acceptance builds them anew.

Regret: the most corrosive horror.

Saturday morning. Hung-over as fuck. The beer fear squirms through my belly with alien tendrils and I know with absolute certainty that I have done something unforgivable. Something apocalyptic. Again.

Rule #9: You're unlikely to regret much of what you don't say.

Save the contrition for the confessional. Regret isn't worth a damn to anyone.

She cried aloud, with a great mourning cry for all that she had never known in this life, and the agony of a bereavement unguessed till this moment.

Se lotto goffamente, è colpa tua. Anche il mio essere attaccata alla vita è colpa tua. Sei tu che mi hai fatto scoprire il rimpianto per il tempo che non potevo passare insieme a te.

SHAZAM: —I just don’t want to see us turned into something we despise.

She could now be sad without losing a jot of hope. Nay, rather, the least approach of sadness would begin at once to wake her hope. She regretted nothing that had come, nothing that had gone. She believed more and more that not anything worth having is ever lost; that even the most evanescent shades of feeling are safe for those who grow after their true nature, toward that for which they were made—in other and higher words, after the will of God.

She could, she thinks, have entered a different life. She could have had a life as potent and dangerous as literature itself.

She could not picture it. Herself riding on the subway or streetcar, caring for new horses, talking to new people, living among hordes of people every day who were not Clark. A life, a place, chosen for that specific reason––that it would not contain Clark. The strange and terrible thing coming clear to her about that world of the future, as she now pictured it, was that she would not exist there. She would only walk around, and open her mouth and speak, and do this and do that. She would not really be there. And what was strange about it was that she was doing all this, she was riding on this bus in the hope of recovering herself. As Mrs. Jamieson might say––and as she herself might with satisfaction have said––taking charge of her own life. With nobody glowering over her, nobody's mood infecting her with misery. But what would she care about? How would she know that she was alive? While she was running away from him––now––Clark still kept his place in her life. But when she was finished running away, when she just went on, what would she put in his place? What else––who else––could ever be so vivid a challenge?

She had dispersed. She was the garden at Prem Nivas (soon to be entered into the annual Flower Show), she was Veena's love of music, Pran's asthma, Maan's generosity, the survival of some refugees four years ago, the neem leaves that would preserve quilts stored in the great zinc trunks of Prem Nivas, the moulting feather of some pond-heron, a small unrung brass bell, the memory of decency in an indecent time, the temperament of Bhaskar's great-grandchildren. Indeed, for all the Minsisster of Revenue's impatience with her, she was his regret. And it was right that she should continue to be so, for he should have treated her better while she lived, the poor, ignorant, grieving fool.

She could not bring herself to turn away from the night sky, for the stars and the blackness were the only escape she had when old faded memories returned to haunt her.

She didn’t know exactly when she had first felt the sensation of regret. It was a physical sensation, a shudder that began deep in the stomach and traveled up through the throat; it was distinct from remorse, which one felt first in the throat and only later in the gut. Yet it was regret that she couldn’t handle. She did anything she could to avoid it—including the initial bargain, the one that began everything. And now this one.

She had lost him. Lost him because she'd let him go. And she could not allow herself to regret that decision.

She moved back in with us three months after coming back. And every day, I waited for her to leave again. I knew she would. I knew it in the core of my soul. And the, one day, she did. But not the way I thought. She died. A massive heart attack at the age of forty-nine. And for the second time in my life, I'd been left by mu mother. But this time, it was for good. And it wasn't her fault, which was the hardest part of it to wrap my mind around. I couldn't hate her for leaving this time. But I could hate myself a little for failing to let her back in when I still had the chance.

She lashed herself with every failing she could think of, then every regret, and fell to the ground, sobbing.