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Mothers And Sons Quotes

Browse 39 quotes about Mothers And Sons.

Mothers And Sons Quotes

“ANDROMAQUE [Mon fils] ne sera pas lâche. Mais je lui aurai coupé l’index de la main droite. HECTOR Si toutes les mères coupent l’index droit de leur fils, les armées de l’univers se feront la guerre sans index... Et si elles lui coupent la jambe droite, les armées seront unijambistes... Et si elles lui crèvent les yeux, les armées seront aveugles, mais il y aura des armées, et dans la mêlée elles se chercheront le défaut de l’aine, ou la gorge, à tâtons... ANDROMAQUE Je le tuerai plutôt. HECTOR Voilà la vraie solution maternelle des guerres.”

“I used to think that she [my mother] wanted me to be someone else. But it wasn’t her who wanted me to be someone else - it was me. She pushed and challenged me. And I didn’t like it. But it wasn’t because she wanted to ruin my day. She was, in some ways, like Dante’s mother. They both expected their sons to be decent human beings - and they were going to do everything they could to make that happen. And they sure as hell let us know when we weren’t getting it.”

“The best love in the world, is the love of a man. The love of a man who came from your womb, the love of your son! I don't have a daughter, but maybe the love of a daughter is the best, too. I am first and foremost me, but right after that, I am a mother. The best thing that I can ever be, is me. But the best gift that I will ever have, is being a mother.”

“He looked right into her eyes; didn’t she know the way she was? She had always treated him like that, his eyes argued. She did not agree—she had never treated him like this, he had spent his lifetime criticizing her. That was only true because she had spent her lifetime criticizing him—and that was how they always came back here, sometimes a wordless moment, their eyes glancing at each other like in a fencing match, each of them accusing the other of playing the role of the victim, portraying each other as the enemy to justify their self-inflicted wounds. She had turned into an uneducated woman (he would argue). He was evil (she would say), he was unable to recognize and acknowledge the good things people tried to do for him.”

“The poor mother! This is the reward you get for your love. Is that what you expected? Well, the fact of the matter is that mothers don't expect rewards. There's no rhyme or reason — they just love. Do you achieve greatness and fame, are you proud, is your name on everyone's lips, do your deeds resound around the world? Then your mother trembles with joy, she weeps, laughs and prays long and ardently. But you, the son, rarely think of sharing your success with the woman who bore you. Are you lacking in wit or spirit, has nature denied you beauty, are your heart and body dogged by ill health, do people shun you, and is there no place for you among them? Then so much the bigger is your place in a mother's heart, and so much more tightly does she enfold you in her arms, ill-favored, failed creature though you are, and so much the longer and more fervently does she pray for you.”

“We are God's chosen people. We are God's treasured possession. Let us rise in mighty strength to possess our rightful places as God's children.”

“Am I alone in this mother-food connection or does being with your mom trigger the sudden and voracious need for large amounts of mac & cheese, rice pudding, and the scraps along the side of a bowl of cookie dough?”

“She started choosing her words carefully. 'It's the way you were trying to earn money that made me mad,' she began. Then she leaned down until her face was on a level with his, still talking slowly, still picking her words thoughtfully. 'You see, colored people have been shining shoes and washing clothes and scrubbing floors for years and years. White people seem to think that's the only kind of work they're fit to do. The hard work. The dirty work. The work that pays the least.' She thought about this small dark apartment they were living in, about 116th Street which was filled to overflowing with people who lived in just such apartments as this, about the white people on the downtown streets who stared at her with open hostility in their eyes, and she started talking swiftly, forgetting to choose her words. 'I'm not going to let you begin at eight doing what white folks figure all eight-year-old colored boys ought to do. For if you're shining shoes at eight, you'll probably be doing the same thing when you're eighty. And I'm not going to have it.”

“Maybe moving away would make him not so disorganized. (He doubted himself.) He would send pictures to his mom of his new room, showing not only his tidiness, but also his self-sufficiency and that he could make ends meet by himself. Which would surprise her, maybe even offend her; yes, she would have been wrong about him—because Randolfo could take care of himself, he thought with a sense of pride.”

“Her boy—this child she raised on her own, in whom she placed her purest faith, to whom she read on countless evenings books he loved, which she found dull, for whom she baked special birthday cakes in the shapes of superheroes, and with whom she whooped and hollered around the backyard while pointing cowboy sticks against darkening skies—was no longer her ally. Bang, bang.”

“Just the right rock calls to me. I crouch and finger the worn, smooth spots on its oblong surface. Its weight rests in my hand for a few seconds, before I hurl the cold, blue stone into the lake and turn and walk towards home. My feet catch in the scrubby border of the pebbly shore. Evening approaches over Lake Nipigon, and the sky, the color of a beaver’s tooth, burns at the edge of the horizon in the last rays of the sun. Why did she not want me? The question shadows every other thought in my mind and wounds my soul.”

“Maang-ikwe told me one night how I had sprung from a place of desire, anger, and fear. But my mother also told me, “It does not matter how we begin. It matters how we end.” She pointed out, “Pain brings a richer harvest than contentment.” I think she was right. For as I look around at the people present, I am thankful for the harvest of lives which came birthed from painful places.”

“A nice fire inside—surrounded by your loved ones. What could be nicer? You do love me, don't you Chester? It's okay. I know you love us even if you can't say you do. But why can't you say it? Please Chester—tell me you love me. I'm your mother—if you can't love me, who can you love?”