US /kənˈfɛs/
・UK /kən'fes/
Inside the walls of gold, outside of happiness (It’s all been a show, too late to confess) 金の壁に囲まれ 幸せから閉め出された(すべてが見世物に過ぎなかった今さら懺悔したって遅い)
Inside the walls of gold, outside of happiness (It’s all been a show, too late to confess) 金の壁に囲まれ 幸せから閉め出された(すべてが見世物に過ぎなかった今さら懺悔したって遅い)
I've got to confess to his lawyers.
an inch of which would be a keepsake beyond price: in short, I should have liked, I do confess,
Mrs. Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had had
Because although it might seem terrifying to confess your true feelings to someone, never letting them in or showing them your true feelings will only discourage them from pursuing you and getting to know the real you.
Because although it might seem terrifying to confess your true feelings to someone, never letting them in or showing them your true feelings will only discourage them from pursuing you and getting to know the real you.
It starts the moment that one person says to another, "I am going out of my mind," or "I hate my partner's guts," or "I am terrified," or "Help me!" It starts when a man can admit, "I am in love with a colleague," or "I can't get it up anymore," or "The anxiety never stops." There won't be a friendship that properly counts until we can reveal ourselves to be as weak as we are, until we can confess that we have been lying to preserve face and that the truth is far ghastlier and sadder, far more tender and more pathetic than we have yet been able to let on.
Until we can confess that we've been lying to preserve face, and that the truth is far ghastlier and sadder, far more tender and more pathetic than we've yet been able to let on.
In fact, why don't we go around and confess some of the ways that we've already fudged on our resolutions?
In fact, why don't we go around and confess some of the ways that we've already fudged on our resolutions?
With a mild smile we can confess that we have, to all intents, gone a bit mad.
With a mild smile, we can confess that we have, to all intents, gone a bit mad.
A painful developmental story tends to lie behind the compulsion. We share too much when we have been too lonely. We fail to understand the risks of overexposure when we have suffered in environments in which so little sincere or real was ever exchanged. We rush to confess because no one showed us a steady, composed route to intimacy. To the isolated former child, no alarm sounds at the thought of having an unbarred conversation with a character who entered the room twenty minutes ago. Such is the promise and lure of togetherness. Such has been the burden of secrecy. We might with time make our peace with remaining somewhat more mysterious. We might more judiciously weigh up the benefits of a sugar-rush of disclosure against the slower satisfactions of safety. We might tell very few people indeed what is going on for us in love, with our health or with work, not because we want to be unkind or boring, but because our first priority has become to look after ourselves.
We rush to confess because no one showed us a steady, composed route to intimacy.
are ready to confess."
Anne steadfastly refused to confess. She persisted in asserting that she had not
Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are