The one thing I regret is that I will never have time to read

Hear, O children of the word, the wistful confession of Françoise Sagan: “The one thing I regret is that I will never have time to read all the books I want to read.” These words carry both sweetness and sorrow. They are the sigh of a soul who knows that time is limited, but that the hunger of the mind and spirit is infinite. The shelves of wisdom stretch beyond the horizon, yet the traveler of life has only a brief journey. In this lies both tragedy and inspiration: that the quest for knowledge can never be finished, yet it must be pursued with fervor.

The origin of this thought lies in Sagan’s life as a writer and lover of literature. She dwelt among books, breathing them as others breathe air, shaping her own works upon the wisdom of those who came before. To her, each book was not mere ink upon paper, but a doorway into another soul, another world, another truth. Her regret was not for riches lost or honors denied, but for the vast ocean of thought she could never fully sail. She gave voice to the yearning all true seekers know: the ache of too little time for too much wonder.

Consider the example of Thomas Jefferson, statesman and philosopher. His library grew into the thousands, overflowing with volumes of history, science, poetry, and philosophy. He confessed that he could not resist a book, and in his later years, when age dimmed his body, he still surrounded himself with reading. Yet even Jefferson, with all his years and all his passion, could not conquer the endless expanse of knowledge. His regret was Sagan’s regret: that the span of life is too narrow for the vastness of learning.

And so, this truth holds for all. The mind is a vessel that longs to be filled, yet the river of wisdom is unending. We cannot drink it all, but we can drink deeply. The regret of Sagan is not meant to bring despair, but to awaken gratitude and urgency. If all cannot be read, then let us choose wisely what we do read. If time is short, then let us use it well, with minds awake and hearts attentive, rather than squandered upon trifles and distractions.

This saying also teaches humility. No single soul can possess all knowledge, no matter how brilliant or determined. We are each but a fragment, adding our voice to the chorus of ages. To recognize that there will always be more to learn is not defeat, but wisdom. It keeps us seeking, curious, and alive. For the joy of learning is not in finishing the journey, but in walking it with wonder.

The lesson is clear: cherish your time, and guard it from waste. Do not let the hours slip away in idleness when they could be spent in discovery. Read not only with the eyes, but with the soul. Read the great works that stir your spirit, the humble ones that teach you patience, and the living book of life itself—the people, the struggles, the beauties of the world. Each is a page worth turning, and though you cannot finish the library of existence, you can taste its richest treasures.

Practical counsel follows: keep a book close at hand, so that even the brief moments of the day—the waiting, the pauses, the silences—may be filled with wisdom. Set aside an hour for reading as one sets aside bread for nourishment. And let your reading not be a hoarding of words, but a transformation of the soul, so that the knowledge you gain becomes light for others. In this way, though you cannot read all books, the few you embrace will shape your eternity.

Thus, let Sagan’s words guide you: “The one thing I regret is that I will never have time to read all the books I want to read.” Let them stir you not to despair, but to action. Live as though each day were a page, each year a volume, and your life itself a library. Though you cannot read all the books, you can write your own with deeds of meaning, leaving behind a story worthy to rest among the eternal shelves of memory.