Mary Shelley Quotes

We wrote verses that condemned us, with no hope of pardon, to the most bitter solitude.

Who made the world I cannot tell; 'Tis made, and here am I in hell. My hand, though now my knuckles bleed, I never soiled with such a deed.

I've created such a monster.

I felt for my crime a just terror; I looked on my life with hate, and my passion with horror.

It's not a good feeling--knowing that you profoundly deserve the title of monster. It's better to be kind than to feel guilty.

Sin pulls a man down into despondency and despair.

I feel guilty about spending so much time away from home and loved ones.

No one leaves an old friend unless they are ashamed.

The sorry path that remains for me to follow from an obscure prison to the gallows has been trodden by men with more merit than my own.

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.

Guilt only dreads Liberty of Speech, which drags it out of its lurking Holes, and exposes its Deformity and Horror to Day-light.

A song is about heartbreak - but what are the constituent feelings? What are the aspects? There is anger, there is guilt, there are all these different things. I guess putting those voices into dialogue together just felt real.

I think everyone can relate to that fall from grace - having life change in an instant or having to stand for some of your bad choices, that feeling of 'Nothing is ever going to be good again.'

She went to the window seat and sat there, sniffling, hating them all, and herself most of all. It was all her fault, everything bad that had happened.

There was a sentence in your letter that struck me, “I wish I were far away from everything, I am the cause of all, and bring only sorrow to everybody, I alone have brought all this misery on myself and others.” These words struck me because that same feeling, just the same, not more nor less, is also on my conscience.

There is an important difference between the sorrow for sin that leads to repentance and the sorrow that leads to despair.

My candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open.

I have fallen, I have sunk so low. I have messed up, better I should know.

Thousands of miles of wheat, indifference, and self- apology.

If I'd known how wrong I was - if I'd had any idea of the awful night that lay ahead - I'd have run after him and never returned to that disgusting circus of blood, that revolting circus of death.

"Oh, ancient god, whatever your name," whispered Ahmed. "Help this lost son of a good father, this evil boy who meant no harm but slept in school, ran errands slowly, did not pray from his heart, ignored his mother, and did not hold his family in great esteem. For all this I know I must suffer. But here in the midst of silence, at the desert's heart, where even the wind knows not my name? Must I die so young? Am I to be forgotten without having been?"

Thoughts cannot form themselves in words so horrid As can express my guilt.

I’m sorry for everything.” Then he turns and pushes back into the woods, and he’s gone.