Quotes About Family

If I were you, I would never tell ugly stories about ingenious ways of killing people, for you never can tell but that someone at the table may be tired of his or her nearest and dearest.

an institution is where they put Aunt Maggy when she began collecting Wheaties in a stamp album.

My mother was an overwrought artist who achieved some success but was a little too fond of alcohol and always struggled to find new clients, while my dad the underemployed accountant specialized in schemes to get rich quick that usually brought in nothing. Neither of them seemed to possess the ability to focus on one thing for any length of time. Sometimes it felt as if I had been placed with a family rather than born into one.

His father could have been less honest, because honesty was often just a way of being cruel.

He who denies sex is a filthy person who smears in the lowest way his own parents who have begotten him

I have a couple of favorite relatives, but because they're so far away I tend to ignore them-even though they have mailboxes, email addresses and telephone numbers. Today, I'll get back in touch.

Argh? Pathetic and inarticulate. Nice combination. Your mothers must be so proud.

Once upon a time there were two seven-year-old boys named Bruce and David. They both had mother s who loved them very much. Each boy's day began differently.

I know, father-among-the-angels, I'm not playing the game one bit now—not one bit; but I don't believe even you could find anything to be glad about sleeping all alone 'way off up here in the dark—like this. If only I was near Nancy or Aunt Polly, or even a Ladies' Aider, it would be easier! Down-stairs

Oh, Pollyanna, Pollyanna, to think of the Harrington homestead ever coming to this! It isn't, dearie, Pollyanna at last soothed laughingly. It's the Carews that are COMING TO THE HARRINGTON HOMESTEAD!

For a time neither the man nor the woman could speak. There was nothing in their humdrum, habit-smoothed tilling of the soil and washing of pots and pans to prepare them for a scene like this- a moonlight barn, a strange dead man, and that dead man;s son babbling of brooks and squirrels and playing jigs on a fiddle for a dirge. At last, however, Simeon found his voice.

One admirable thing about my grandparents was their ability to forgive infinitely.

No seas estúpida! —exclamó. Su hermana lo irritaba.

Cuando pensaba en el porvenir, una avalancha de días, apretujados los unos contra los otros, se le venía encima y se venía encima de su casa y de sus hijos. Para él, los días no contaban de la misma manera que contaban para los demás.

mis gentes.

No podía dormir: había presencias extrañas en torno a su casa, como si un maleficio lanzado contra él y su familia desde hacía muchos siglos hubiera empezado a tomar forma aquella noche.

For whatever reason, whether you were neglected or abused physically, sexually, or emotionally, it was a problem with your parents, not with you.

The family becomes rigid and hard when it excludes others from its meals; those that must be fed provide a natural pretext for the exclusion of others. The hollowness of this pretext is revealed by families which have no children and yet make not the slightest move to share their meal with others. The 'family' of two is man's most contemptible creation.

Since the death of his daughter, a consumptive, he had not thrashed a woman; he lived alone.

Listen to me, kid. Don't forget that you are in a concentration camp. In this place, it is every many for himself, and you cannot think of others. Not even you father. In this place, there is no such thing as father, brother, friend. Each of us lives and dies alone. Let me give you good advice: stop giving your ration of bread and soup to your old father. You cannot help him anymore. And you are hurting yourself. In fact, you should be getting his rations...

It was the beginning of the war. I was twelve years old, my parents were alive, and God still dwelt in our town.

Men to the left! Women to the right! Eight words spoken quietly, indifferently, without emotion. Eight simple, short words. Yet that was the moment when I left my mother.

I remember a young Hungarian Jew, his shoulders stooped like an old man's, who confessed to some infraction so as to be beaten in his uncle's stead. I am young, he said, and stronger than he. He was young but no less weak. He did not survive the beating

I didn't know that this was the moment in time and the place where I was leaving my mother and Tzipora forever.