“Nay, you'll be ashamed of me everyday of your life," he answered; "and the more ashamed, the more you know me; and I cannot bide it.”
“When you die, do you want to feel ashamed of what you've done with your life? Feel ashamed of what your life meant?”
“I wish... I wish he wasn't quite so ashamed of me. And if he could stop feeling so ashamed of himself, then maybe we might stand a chance.”
“I am deficient in character, and if I had more of it, I would be ashamed of the fact.”
“You know, there was a part of me that was so defiant, and a part of me that was so ashamed, and I really couldn’t say which was which at any given point in time. ”
“Everyone dies, honey," I said, very quietly. "Everyone. There's no 'if.' There's only 'when.'" I let that sink in for a moment. "When you die, do you want to feel ashamed of what you've done with your life? Feel ashamed of what your life meant?”