Sigourney Weaver Quotes

There's a lot of pain in my heart because what I accomplished was second to none. I'm not losing any sleep, but I do pay attention every year at this time.

I liked being a teenager, but I would not go back for all the tea in China.

And I've been walking 'round with memories way too long.

I think that my regrets mostly have to do with my relationship with my ex-girlfriend. Every once in a while, you get those flashback memories of conversations you had with your exes, and you just, like, wince when you're walking down the street. Something occurs to you, 'Oh, no, I said that.'

High school, you don't want to go back and do it over again.

What strikes me about high-school reunions is the realization that these are people one has known one's whole life.

As far as I know, no tapes exist from my years at 'T.J.'s.' I wish they did.

I fantasize about going back to high school with the knowledge I have now. I would shine. I would have a good time, I would have a girlfriend. I think that's where a lot of my pain comes from. I think I never had any teenage years to go back to.

We would go back and maybe not say that thing to our dad that we said, or maybe be a little nicer to someone who we cared about and had a relationship with when we were young. You know, they're subtle things, but we carry those with us forever. And I think that regret and time travel are intrinsically linked to me.

I loved high school, but I wouldn't want to do it again.

It doesn't make me happy to go back and talk about how great high school was.

Golly, I hated high school.

There are a lot of people in Chicago that I miss. I was there one year out of high school. So I basically grew up there.

When I look back at all the crap I learned in high school, it's a wonder I can think at all.

That is the nature of endings, it seems. They never end. When all the missing pieces of your life are found, put together with glue of memory and reason, there are more pieces to be found.

The trouble with class reunions is that old flames have become even older.

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?

There are some people in your life who bring back old memories. And there are others - your first kiss, your first love, your first sex - who, the moment you see them, bring a spark...and something far more potent. They bring back your old life and with that, potential. And possibilities. And the feeling that if you were back in that time, life could be so very different from where you're stuck right now. That's the most tantalizing thing....I want my potential back.

Mistakes are like the memories you hide in an attic: old love letters from relationships that tanked, photos of dead relatives, toys from a childhood you miss. Out of sight is out of mind, but somewhere deep inside you know they still exist. And you also know that you're avoiding them.

Every house we have lived in, every building to which our hands have lent their work, belongs to us by virtue of love or of regret.

I still think about the letter you asked me to write. It nags at me, even though you're gone and there's no one to give it to anymore. Sometimes I work on it in my head, trying to map out the story you asked me to tell, about everything that happened this past fall and winter. It's all still there, like a movie I can watch when I want to. Which is never.

Things happen once only and are never repeated, never return. Except in memory.

How memories lie to us. How time coats the ordinary with gold. How it breaks the heart to go back and attempt to re-live them. How crushed we are when we discover that the gold was merely gold-plating thinly coated over lead, chalk and peeling paint.

Nostalgias were peeled from it long ago.