#confess

I must confess that my imagination refuses to see any sort of submarine doing anything but suffocating its crew and floundering at sea. ↗

— H. G. Wells

#anything #confess #crew #doing #i

No nation, savage or civilized, save only the United States of America, has confessed its inability to protect its women save by hanging, shooting, and burning alleged offenders. ↗

— Ida B. Wells

#america #burning #civilized #confessed #hanging

Personal sins should not require press releases and problems within a family shouldn't have to mean public confessions. ↗

— Tiger Woods

#family #mean #personal #press #press releases

We need repentance. You see, repentance is not only going to a priest and confessing. We must free ourselves from the obsession of thoughts. We fall many times during our life, and it is absolutely necessary to reveal everything [in Confession] to a priest who is a witness to our repentance. Repentance is the renewal of life. This means we must free ourselves from all our negative traits and turn toward absolute good. No sin is unforgivable except the sin of unrepentance. ↗

— Elder Thaddeus of Vitovnica

#confession #eastern-orthodoxy #forgiveness #good #obsession

She [Mary Maclane] is almost always referred to as “confessional.” She has been referred to, several times, as the first blogger. Whereas her writing does not confess much - it is much more spiritual memoir than anything, or perhaps something akin to a mystic’s courtly love, directed at the self. I am wondering what distinguishes writing as confessional… I keep on feeling I prefer the latter-day MacLane, the diary she wrote while convalescing from scarlet fever back home in Butte, Montana, I, Mary MacLane, that Melville House is only publishing as an ebook. Mary MacLane melancholy, totally isolated. Feeling intense disquiet. Now in her early thirties, meditating on her whirlwind celebrity, in cities, feeling distanced from all that, but longing for it too. Obsessed with the Mary MacLane who stopped writing, or stopped publishing books, who was involved with the anarchist/bohemian crowd in Chicago, with the Dill Pickle, who died in poverty and obscurity on the South Side at the age of 48. I want to write about her, but I don’t know how or why yet. ↗

— Kate Zambreno

#mary-maclane #memoir #writing #age

Pero si la elección que tengo que tomar, se reduce a elegir entre tú o yo, te escojo a ti. Siempre te he escogido. ↗

— Becca Fitzpatrick

#love #spanish #love

Abruptly he thrust his snow-drenched leather gloves against my cheeks. I dodged. A raw carnal feeling blazed up within me, branding my cheeks. I felt myself staring at him with crystal clear eyes... From that time on I was in love with Omi. ↗

— Yukio Mishima

#mask #love

I’d think about you and how I didn’t want us to end. It’s complicated…’ Max still held her, his thumbs stroking the spot on her wrists where her pulse was thundering away. ‘Uncomplicate it then. Did you miss me?’ ‘Of course I did! I’ve missed you so much, I hurt from it.’ Then, and only then, did Max release her but it was only so Neve could wind her arms around his neck because they were kissing. She couldn’t say who leaned in first, but all of a sudden there was the familiar but shocking touch of lips on lips. ↗

— Sarra Manning

#feelings #kiss #love #reunion #love

Confession is an act of violence against the unoffending. ↗

— Tom Stoppard

#violence #love

But I'm not a saint yet. I'm an alcoholic. I'm a drug addict. I'm homosexual. I'm a genius. ↗

— Truman Capote

#alcoholism #confession #music