Quotes About Mother

Love and honor thy Mother, for she is the fruit that gives thou life.

well, young man," the judge began, what it biols down to this if the court so desires and if you belive that your home setting is undesirable... you may return and desire with your mother at your home residents

Well, spring sprang. We've had our state of grace and our little gift of sanctioned madness, courtesy of Mother Nature. Thanks, Gaia. Much obliged. I guess it's time to get back to that daily routine of living we like to call normal.

If you want to learn about patriarchal families, you don't ask the father, you ask the mother; then maybe you will learn something.

Mother nature will balance things out but not if we interfere by destroying rainforests and overfishing the seas. That is where the real environmental catastrophe could occur.

This faith and hope will pale into insignificance, when the mother, mourning for her recently departed loved one, hears his voice declaring to her that he is still alive, and has all his love, and longings for her, and that he is with her feeling her love for him.

As much as I transferred my mother to Elizabeth Shore of The Black Dahlia, as much as her dad mutated into an obsession with crime in general, well, I have thought about other things throughout the years.

The abandonment depression is first experienced at an age when the young child cannot reflect on it or articulate what is happening. The child simply feels that the flow of life is cruelly disrupted and that he teeters on the verge of annihilation should the vital support of the mother be lost or withheld.

The mother's unavailability to supply the emotional fuel dampened or thwarted the child's desire to individuate and become his real self,

Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not.

Sinatra once said that the only two people he was ever afraid of were his mother and Tommy Dorsey—a flip comment but also a sincere and deeply significant one.

Enough human sorrow had been aired on this bench below them over the centuries for them to understand when a mother mistook a daughter for a part of herself, a part that stood for something she did not like. Two people suffer whenever that mistake is made. Blank

Gaia, as I see her, is no doting mother tolerant of misdemeanours, nor is she some fragile and delicate damsel in danger from brutal mankind. She is stern and tough, always keeping the world warm and comfortable for those who obey the rules, but ruthless in her destruction of those who transgress.

Always that same old story—Father Time and Mother Earth,A marriage on the rocks.

The old adage "necessity is the mother of all invention" remains as true today as it did back in 3500 B.C.

Always respect Mother Nature. Especially when she weighs 400 pounds and is guarding her baby.

That best academy, a mother's knee.

La muerte es la madre de la belleza. —¿Y qué es la belleza? —El terror.

I knew my mother's feet, her clothes, her two-tone black and white shoes - and long after I was sure of it I made myself stand in their midst, folded deep inside myself like a sick pigeon with its eyes closed.

He was, like me, an only child. His father (born in Siberia, a Ukrainian national from Novoagansk) was in mining and exploration. "Big important job—he travels the world." Boris's mother—his father's second wife—was dead.

I don't see why Allison can't say Hate, Mother," said Harriet. "Hate is a perfectly good word." "It's not polite." "It says Hate in the Bible. The Lord hateth this and the Lord hateth that. It says it practically on every page." "Well, don't you say it." "All right, then," Allison burst out. "I detest Mrs. Biggs." Mrs. Biggs was Allison's Sunday school teacher.

Death is the mother of beauty, said Henry. And what is beauty? Terror. Well said, said Julian. Beauty is rarely soft or consolatory. Quite the contrary. Genuine beauty is always quite alarming.

My love was muddied-up below the waterline with my mother, with my mother's death, with losing my mother and not being able to get her back. All that blind, infantile hunger to save and be saved, to repeat the past and make it different, had somehow attached itself, ravenously, to her. There was an instability in it, a sickness.

Death is the mother of Beauty. And what is Beauty? Terror.