Alice Sebold Quotes

But when you kill someone you love, the hard part is never over. It just gets easier to distract yourself from what you've done.

Despite everything my mom and doctor and dad have said to me about blame, I can't stop thinking what I know. And I know that my aunt Helen would still be alive today if she just bought me one present like everybody else. She would be alive if I were born on a day that didn't snow.

sorrow is easier than guilt.

I mean, I felt terrible. And in the beginning, I mean, I was completely devastated. I mean, can you imagine the kind of guilt that you would feel, and the responsibility?

Society isn't good at dealing with people who have something concrete to feel guilty about or who are dealing with a loss.

When my young men began the killing, my heart was hurt.

Nobody feels any worse than I do about losing.

Nothing is more wretched than the mind of a man conscious of guilt.

All I have I would have given gladly not to be standing here today.

I feel terrible about it. Part of it is the horror of what happened and part of it is my guilt about being a part of it.

I have survivor's remorse.

My mother died of a stroke in 1974, and for a long time, I blamed myself. She was utterly devastated when I told her I was a lesbian not long before.

She was nothing but good and I was nothing but bad, but then she died, and I didn't.

My arms are up to the elbows in blood. That is the most terrible thing that lies in my soul.

Guilt is the very nerve of sorrow.

I realized the shells were talking in a voice I recognized. I should have; it was my own. Had I always known that? I suppose I had. On some level, unless we're mad, I think most of us know the various voices of our own imaginations. And of our memories, of course. They have voices, too. Ask anyone who has ever lost a limb or a child or a long-cherished dream. Ask anyone who blames himself for a bad decision, usually made in a raw instant (an instant that is most commonly red). Our memories have voices, too. Often sad ones that clamor like raised arms in the dark.

I'm never going to dance again. Guilty feet have got no rhythm.

I’ve lost someone, too,” he reminded her. “It’s not the same!” She squeezed the bridge of her nose, trying to stifle her tears. “I was so mean to him. I quit the piano! I blamed him for everything, and I didn’t say more than a few words to him for three years! Three years! And I can’t get those years back. But maybe if I hadn’t been so angry, he might not have gotten sick. Maybe I caused that extra… stress that did all this. Maybe it was me!

Delia picked at the raw sores of her conscience...Drunk or sober, Delia lived in the small town in her heart, ignoring the world in which all her love had turned to grief.

Come t'e' picciol fallo amaro morso! Dante. What grievous pain a little fault doth give thee!

The wounds of conscience always leave a scar.

Only the dead can be forgiven; But when I think of that my tongue's a stone.

Guilt is a rope that wears thin.

Remorse sleeps in the atmosphere of prosperity.

I'm ashamed of what I did.