First of all, he was not my type. He was nice, considerate, unselfish and grounded; qualities I’d never experienced in a man. Usually, I went for the self centered, screwed up, “I’m lost, will you be my mother” type.
I should name my future son after an orgasm sound. Not mine—his mother’s. It’d be silly to name him Eek, after my orgasm sound, because that’s his uncle’s name, and that’d be too confusing.
I've had the privilege of learning foreign languages. Instead of merely speaking a watered-down form of my mother tongue, like most people, I'm also helpless in two or three other languages.
Apparently the complete works of Shakespeare packed quite a wallop. To think, my mother said I'd never find use for an English degree. Ha! I'd like to see her knock someone silly with an apron and a cookie press.
I'm an atheist, but I believe in art. I go to galleries like my mother went to church. It helps me understand the way I live.
Though Jesus was in torture on the cross, He thought of praying for His persecutors, of caring for His mother, of securing the good thief's salvation.
If your best friend truly is the person who knows you completely and loves you anyway, wouldn't that be your mother?
What is more powerful than the love of a mother? Perhaps only God's hand in answering her earnest pleadings on your behalf.
That innate love of melody, which she had inherited from her ballad-singing mother, gave the simplest music a power which could well-nigh drag her heart out of her bosom at times.
If you would have a boy to despise his mother, let her keep him at home, and spend her life in petting him up, and slaving to indulge his follies and caprices.
I love the smell of my mother’s hair after she washes it. I love the feel of the scratchy stubble on my father’s face before he shaves. But I’ve never been able to tell them.
But the lucidity of her old age allowed her to see, and she said so many times, that the cries of children in their mothers' wombs are not announcements of ventriloquism or a faculty for prophecy but an unmistakable sign of an incapacity for love.
My mother always told me that there is only one way a woman can be truly safe in this world. And that is to be fiercely, inarguably, and masterfully talented. This is different than being intelligent or even educated.
I watch the sky progress through its morning paces, the light turning from rose to saffron as the sun ascends, its rays like ribbons tangling in the tops of trees.
Mrs. Sussex said Byron’s loss would grow more bearable. But here was the nub: he didn’t want to lose his loss. Loss was all he had left of his mother. If time healed the gap, it would be as if she’d never been there.
We are bastards of the gods, Sorvus, you and I. I once shared the dream you seem to think you are now living. The dream of living here, in Northbrook, the birthplace of our mothers." Thais turned his head to the trees. He heard something. "Such decep...
Through the grace shown to us in the gospel, there is something distinctly Christlike about a mother's love for her child.
My dad, who my mom always refers to as DH for Darling Husband, was protrayed as a 'let's look on the bright side of things' kind of guy, the pillar my everbumbling mother leans on in times of distress.
There she was, the mother of me, like a lit plinth, Heavenly, though I was reared to find this kind Of visitation impractical; she was an unbearable detail Of the supreme celestial map, Of which I had been taught that there was No such thing.
I use two toothbrushes. One is for my anus, though I can never remember which one. Both toothbrushes belong to my mother-in-law, so I’m incentivized to be forgetful.
When describing myself, I don’t use superlatives. Just normal latives. And if I use the same word more than once to describe myself, it’s a relative. This is how I became my own father. And mother.
