Quotes About Family

Consider a single piece glowing in your family's stove. See it, children? That chunk of coal was once a green plant, a fern or reed that lived one million years ago, or maybe two million, or maybe one hundred million . . .

Wherever her great-uncle is, could he have survived this? Could anyone? Has she?

A moment like this--the four of them around the table under the sad, dusty kitchen lamp--could never accommodate all the things she had to say.

He checked the barometer he'd nailed to the family room wall: the pressure was rising.

He could not look at his daughter without feeling his heart turn over.

tang in the back of his throat and he bites back tears. Each morning comes along and you assume it will be similar enough to the previous one—that you will be safe, that your family will be alive, that you will be together, that life will remain mostly as it was. Then a moment arrives and everything changes.

That's how it feels right now, he thinks, kneeling beside her, rinsing her hair: as though his love for his daughter will outstrip the limits of his body. The walls could fall away, even the whole city, and the brightness of that feeling would not wane.

Etienne," Marie-Laure whispers, "are you ever sorry that we came here? That I got dropped in your lap and you and Madame Manec had to look after me? Did you ever feel like I brought a curse into your life?" "Marie-Laure," he says without hesitation. He squeezes her hand with both of his. "You are the best thing that has ever come into my life.

They clomp together through the narrow streets, Marie-Laure's hand on the back of Madame's apron, following the odors of her stews and cakes; in such moments Madame seems like a great moving wall of rosebushes, thorny and fragrant and crackling with bees. Still-warm

He slips out the door and Konstance sits with her back against the wall and Mother paces, chin jutted, forehead creased, and Konstance goes to the door and presses it.

But I wasn't trying to reach England. Or Paris. I thought that if I made the broadcast powerful enough, my brother would hear me. That I could bring him some peace, protect him as he had always protected me.

The love for your kids, I'm learning, is a kind of love that has no conclusion, a feeling that multiplies back on itself.

To be a parent and take an occasional day off from being a parent is a special kind of joy—a lightening, a sweetness made sweeter by its impermanence. We buy tickets, find our seats. The

But what was family? Surely more than genes, eye color, flesh. Family was story: truth and struggle and retribution. Family was time.

His mother the Ice Queen. The only thing he still had of hers was a book: Snow Crystals, by W. A. Bentley. Inside were thousands of carefully prepared micrographs of snowflakes, each image reproduced in a two-inch square, the crystals white against a field of black, arrayed in a grid, four-by-three, twelve per page.

Worse yet, adolescents will be sensitive to hurt puppies, to starving children in distant countries, to a friend with a problem. But not to us, their parents. They do take us totally for granted.

There's really no point in having children if you're not going to be home enough to father them.

Until the sexual revolution, most people understood that customs and laws regarding sex were customs and laws to strengthen or at least to protect the family, and that the family was not something created by the State, but was its own small kingdom, a natural society, founded in the bodily nature of man.

Words fail us. They are like keys: they open, but they also shut. When we were small and could hardly raise ourselves from the floor, we curled our fingers around the fingers of mother and father, and we looked into their faces as they looked into ours. Where is the word for that?

The only reason why mankind has celebrated marriages is that they renew the race; they bring forth new life, within the bounds of a holy vow.

The love of the married man and woman is not a private romance, but a recapitulation of the love that brought them into being in the first place, and that love is what we all duly celebrate.

Planned Parenthood (Planned Predators would perhaps be more apt) have long declared, with crocodilian tears, that every child should be a wanted child, predicating the child's value upon the lusts of the parents, rather than valuing the parents' actions according to the being and the beauty of a child.

Antony's children were provided with additional names about this time

another letter from Atia and Octavius' stepfather arrived. They advised him not to get overexcited