I think his view was more nuanced that the cliche that was extracted.
It would, I agree.
I’m playing devil’s advocate in this thread. Practice takes a long time, sometimes longer than we have. But suppression is problematic, too, I agree.
Fuse,
Ah, yes, this is true. What was it Theodore Roethke said about not wanting to be intelligible to the unintelligent (paraphrasing it). Perhaps that’s what Freddie felt.
I also think that regret is held onto as a means to feel pain, like the masochist does. It could also be a way of holding onto that which someone has lost…longer than necessary. 
Hmmm
I sometimes love to play devil’s advocate. But fuse, we are a process and we have to begin sometime, somewhere. It isn’t as though the beginning of practice is the end of the journey. Unless we’re about to die, what’s the difference? Just begin. Of course, we will recede at times, we flow and we ebb but at least we’re moving. Even if at times we 'freeze over" eventually we’ll melt and begin again.
yes. but strategy can help avoid future regret. 
It was similar to what N. wrote in multiple places:
yet…
Lev Muishkin wrote:
An extraordinary and beautiful example, “No Regrets”.
The tragic French singer Edith Piaf, portrays her ability (like Billie Holiday) to funnel personal tragedy and emotional struggles into her songs, which serve as her coping mechanism, even so, while she portrays through song her acceptance of sadness and her fate, I cannot really cancel out there was not entirely “no regret”, if you listen to the sounds and observe her during the performance of the song. I regard regret as a mixture of disappointment and mourning, to be acknowledged not reined in, nor to become protracted melancholy, simply necessary to experience in order to move forward.
Some spring the white man came, built him a house, and made a clearing here, letting in the sun, dried up a farm, piled up the old gray stones in fences, cut down the pines around his dwelling, planted orchard seeds brought from the old country, and persuaded the civil apple-tree to blossom next to the wild pine and the juniper, shedding its perfume in the wilderness. Their old stocks still remain. He culled the graceful elm from out the woods and from the river-side, and so refined and smoothed his village plot. He rudely bridged the stream, and drove his team afield into the river meadows, cut the wild grass, and laid bare the homes of beaver, otter, muskrat, and with the whetting of his scythe scared off the deer and bear. He set up a mill, and fields of English grain sprang in the virgin soil. And with his grain he scattered the seeds of the dandelion and the wild trefoil over the meadows, mingling his English flowers with the wild native ones. The bristling burdock, the sweet-scented catnip, and the humble yarrow planted themselves along his woodland road, they too seeking “freedom to worship God” in their way. And thus he plants a town. The white man’s mullein soon reigned in Indian cornfields, and sweet-scented English grasses clothed the new soil. Where, then, could the Red Man set his foot? The honey-bee hummed through the Massachusetts woods, and sipped the wild-flowers round the Indian’s wigwam, perchance unnoticed, when, with prophetic warning, it stung the Red child’s hand, forerunner of that industrious tribe that was to come and pluck the wild-flower of his race up by the root. Thoreau, the silly indulgent rueful fool that he was.
“Maybe all one can do is hope to end up with the right regrets,
I know what’s wrong with me - I could never stand still for death! Which you’ve got to do by a certain age, or be ridiculous - you’ve got to stand there nobly and serene, and let death run his tape on your arms and around your belly and up your crotch until he’s got you fitted for that black suit. And I can’t, I won’t!.. So I’m left with wrestling with this anachronistic energy which God has charged me with and I will use it till the dirt is shoveled in my mouth! Life! Life! Fuck death and dying!” Arthur Miller
Emotion is, inescapably, an essential component of rationality.
what do you mean by this then?
“I am dealing with massive regrets right now of my own, constantly remind myself how foolish I was”
You were not foolish, you just did what you could.
Like I said a self indulgent fool.
It’s all very well rueing the day when the US march west destroyed culture after culture laying waste the naive people with genocide when you are sitting there writing poetry and sipping Jack Daniels, or a nice cup of tea. But if you are not prepared to step in and stop the continuing genocide going on all around him, then the sentiment is empty and indulgent. He can enjoy feeling sad and responsible and doing nothing.
Of course, it’s foolish to suppose to assume him as such, without going there-there, and being there, there. We all are rather blase,about supposing that one man’s journey is not another’s folly. Look at the them now, owning casinos, and raking in the big bucks.
As if that were a replacement for an entire continent and way of life. As if trying to scrape a living by parsiting the white man, honours their tradition. I think HT would be horrified.