Quotes About Mother

Death, it turns out, is the mother of all conflicts.

For some reason, I've been thinking more and more about my mother and the way her life failed her, humiliated her with impulses beyond her command, broke her with year after year of the same.

Somewhere in all the snow, she could see her broken heart, in two pieces. Each half was glowing, and beating under all that white. She realized her mother had come back for her only when she felt the boniness of a hand on her shoulder. She was being dragged away. A warm scream filled her throat.

God damn, you were so beautiful, Mama.

Did you learn? The face in the corner watched the flames. I did. There was a considerable pause. Until I was nine. At that age, my mother sold the music studio and stopped teaching. SHe kept only the one instrument but gave up on me not long after I resisted the learning. I was foolish. No, Papa said. You were a boy.

Liesel was sure her mother carried the memory of him, slung over her shoulder. She dropped him. She saw his feet and legs and body slap the platform.

Mama's] voice was surprisingly calm and caring. As you can imagine, this worried the girl a great deal. She'd have preferred to hear them arguing. Whispering adults hardly inspired confidence.

Somewhere in all the snow, she could see her broken heart, in two pieces. Each half was glowing, and beating under all that white. She only realised her mother had come back for her when she felt the boniness of a hand on her shoulder. She was being dragged away. A warm scream filled her throat.

Sometimes she would whisper the word Mama and see her mother's face a hundred times in a single afternoon.

Snow had been falling consistently, and the service to Munich was forced to stop due to faulty track work. There was a woman wailing. A girl stood numbly next to her. In panic, the mother opened the door. She climbed down into the snow, holding the small body. What could the girl do but follow?

On quite a few occasions Liesel forgot about her mother and any other problem of which she currently held ownership.

She pointed to a poster on the casino that showed a mother telling her son, "I Would Rather You Came Home a Dead Patriot Than a Live Traitor." Maria said, "No mother on earth would say that. This worship of death is sick.

I wouldn't be worth my salt as a mother if I didn't pass on the family recipes.

A mother never hears the words "I hate you" without cringing and feeling like a hopeless failure.

Your blanket is all torn because it's old." "It is not old," Jane said. "But it is old," Jane's mother said. "We bought it when you were born. And then we had to wash it lots of times. And we washed it and washed it, and now it is all worn out. Look, you have a nice new big blanket. You don't need that old blanket. That old blanket is like a rag now, darling.

says the brave and tearful mother hustled over from subconscious central casting when recollection fails.

Religions are the children of ignorance, and they do not long survive their mother. - On Religion

Memory was that woman on the train. Insane in the way she sifted through dark things in a closet and emerged with the most unlikely ones - a fleeting look, a feeling. The smell of smoke. A windscreen wiper. A mother's marble eyes. Quite sane in the way she left huge tracts of darkness veiled. Unremembered.

But Kama the Generous could not refuse his mother what she asked of him. So he modified the promise. Equivocated. Made a small adjustment, took a somewhat altered oath.

Memory was that woman on the train. Insane in the way she sifted through dark things in a closet and emerged with the most unlikely ones—a fleeting look, a feeling. The smell of smoke. A windscreen wiper. A mother's marble eyes. Quite sane in the way she left huge tracts of darkness veiled. Unremembered.

The moth on Rahel's heart lifted a downy leg. Then put it back. Its little leg was cold. A little less her mother loved her.

I am a reflection of my mother's secret poetry as well as of her hidden angers.

Fair, fair, what's fair, you think? Is fair you want, look in god's face.' My mother was busily dropping onions into the tin. She paused, and turning around, held my puffy face up, her hand beneath my chin. Her eyes so sharp and furious before, now just looked tired and sad.

Dear goddess! Face-up again against the renewal of vows. Do not let me die a coward, mother. Nor forget how to sing. Nor forget song is a part of mourning as light is a part of sun.