Best 45 quotes in «father and son quotes» category

And there I was, trudging through the same old nowhere, day after day, always wanting to slow down, to sit down, to lie down, with my father walking on ahead, no doubt a little desperate, as he had every right to be.

A father is an animal the moment he loves his public reputation more than his children but the father becomes a father of his children, the moment he loves his children more than his public reputation. Fathers are plenty whereas what we lack today is a selfless father.

A father is an animal the moment he loves his public reputation more than his children but the father becomes a father of his children, the moment he loves his children more than his public reputation. What we lack today is a selfless father who loves his children not a father who is addicted to his public reputation than his children. Fathers are plenty but a transparent and sincere fathers are few.

But even though I was with my father again, I never felt really secure deep down. I don't know how to put it exactly, but things were never really settled inside me. I always had this feeling like, I don't know, like somebody was putting something over on me, like my real father had disappeared forever and, to fill the gap, some other guy was sent to me in his shape.

At this moment, I know that the answer has to be yes. I am defeated. By my own father. How Darth Vader.

Every man can provide provision to his children if he is committed and hardworking but a man who fails to enter into the depths of the mind of his children is not is father, but a master who owns a slave!

By the time you have a child and realise that you had a big void in you devoid of fatherly love and affection, then that moment will be the moment of your son's enlightenment!

Every man has his tastes," Sebastian said sensibly. "I doubt yours are all that shocking." "What your generation considered shocking is probably different from mine." There was a short, offended silence. When Sebastian replied, his voice was as dry as tinder. "Ancient and decrepit fossil that I am, I believe the ruins of my senile brain can somehow manage to grasp what you're trying to convey. You've indulged in wanton carnal excess for so long that you're disillusioned. The trifles that excite other men leave you indifferent. No virgin's pallid charms could ever hope to compete with the subversive talents of your mistress." Gabriel glanced up in surprise. His father looked sardonic. "I assure you, my lad, sexual debauchery was invented long before your generation. The libertines of my grandfather's time committed acts that would make a satyr blush. Men of our lineage are born craving more pleasure than is good for us. Obviously I was no saint before I married, and God knows I never expected to find fulfillment in the arms of one woman for a lifetime. But I have. Which means there's no reason you can't." "If you say so." "I do say so.

Dad...you did it? (Shocked but keeping voice down) You did it to the others? You sent out a hundred and twenty cracked engine-heads and let those boys die! How could you do that? How? (Voice rises with anger) Dad...Dad, you killed twenty-one men! You killed them, you murdered them. (Becomes more furious) Explain it to me. Explain to me how you do it? What did you do? (Pause) Explain it to me goddammit or I will tear you to pieces! I want to know what you did, now what did you do? You had a hundred and twenty cracked engine-heads, now what did you do? Why'd you ship them out in the first place? If you knew they were cracked, then why didn't you tell them?

dad had to... ...work three jobs he had to give his time off to sleep instead of knowing me

Dad has shamelessly played the Mom card. Against which there is no defense.

He's on to sashimi now, fanning and curling slices of snapper and fugu into white roses on his cutting board. Before Toshio can plate the slices, Shunichi reaches over and calmly replaces the serving plate his son has chosen with an Edo-era ceramic rectangle more to his liking. Three pieces of tempura- shrimp, eggplant, new onion- emerge hissing and golden from the black iron pot in the corner, and Toshio arranges them on small plates with wedges of Japanese lime. Before the tempura goes out, Shunichi sneaks in a few extra granules of salt while Toshio's not looking. By now Dad is shadowing his son's every move. As Toshio waves a thin plank of sea cucumber eggs over the charcoal fire, his dad leans gently over his shoulder. "Be careful. You don't want to cook it. You just want to release its aroma." Toshio places a fried silverfish spine on a craggy ceramic plate, tucks grated yuzu and sansho flowers into its ribs, then lays a sliver of the dried eggs over the top. The bones shatter like a potato chip, and the sea cucumber detonates in my mouth.

Forget Batman: when I really thought about what I wanted to be when I grew up, I wanted to be my dad.

He asks me if I'd ever killed someone and rushes from the kitchen table, but I ask him to stay, to listen. "Collateral Damage," I say, "is the polite way of expressing the death of civilians who unknowingly mingle with the enemy." He's thirteen now, fascinated with video games glamorizing real wars. I rise to leave, and he says, "But Dad, you didn't answer my question." I did.

He'd done everything in his power to make damn certain that Daniel never had to fear coming home. At that endeavor, Cameron knew he'd already surpassed his own father.

He thought of that heroic Colonel Pontmercy . . . who had left upon every field of victory in Europe drops of that same blood which he, Marius, had in his veins, who had grown grey before his time in discipline and in command, who had lived with his sword-belt buckled, his epaulets falling on his breast, his cockade blackened by powder, his forehead wrinkled by the cap, in the barracks, in the camp, in the bivouac, in the ambulance, and who after twenty years had returned from the great wars with his cheek scarred, his face smiling, simple, tranquil, admirable, pure as a child, having done everything for France and nothing against her.

Father is an animal the moment he loves his public reputation more than his children but a father becomes the father of his children, the moment he loves his children more than his public reputation. Fathers who are addicted to their public reputation than their children are plenty whereas transparent and sincere fathers who loves their children than their reputation are few. And that requires sacrifice which proves you are worthy of being the father of your child. Don't be one, if you cant be one of the sacrificers!

Father is an animal the moment he loves his public reputation more than his children but the father becomes a father of his children, the moment he loves his children more than his public reputation. Fathers who are addicted to their public reputation than their children are plenty whereas transparent and sincere fathers who loves their children than their reputation are few. And that requires sacrifice that proves you are worthy of being a father of your child. Don't be one, if you cant be one of the sacrificers!

Father is an animal the moment he loves his public reputation more than his children but the father becomes a father of his children, the moment he loves his children more than his public reputation. Fathers who are addicted to their public reputation than their children are plenty whereas transparent and sincere fathers who loves their children than their reputation are few. And that requires sacrifice that proves you are worthy of being a father pf your child!

His father's last word, which Sean had never told anyone, not even his mother, hadn't been goodbye: it had been hello. He hadn't died; he'd been set free from the constraints of history and flesh. And while the fathers of other children could only be the people they were, and were forced to live the lives they'd made for themselves, the Philip Steiner of his son's daydreams was all the possible versions of himself that Sean could imagine. He was always near, always ready to listen, always offering solace. He was all the possible fathers. He was a dragonslayer and a titan of industry; he was a cunning detective and a grizzled gunfighter; he was an astronaut and a priest and a jailer of thieves. He lived in the shadows, and he filled his son's world with light.

How do I make her see that she need no’ fear me?” Albert asked his father. They were sitting opposite one another at Marcum’s desk in his private room. Though the hour was quite late , the sun still shone through the open window enough to negate the need for many candles. “Ye can no’ make her do anythin’, ” Marcum replied. “All ye can do is show her. Let her see ye mean her no harm, that ye want only her happiness. The rest be up to her.

If you can't pay your own way, then don't go." ~Billy Noel Meeks (1919-2011)

I never thought to ascribe my mother's emotional and physical exhaustion to the lack of a husband and father; rather, I ascribed it to my existence. In other words, I grew up learning the exact opposite of what Eisenhower was taught. I learned that if I didn't exist, the family would be better off. I grew up believing that if I had never been born, things would be easier for the people I loved. (page 35)

I had to be an adult, be a father without a son, so for one last moment I needed to be a son who needed his mother.

I knew my father had done the best he could, and I had no regrets about the way I'd turned out. Regrets about journey, maybe, but not the destination.

I will no’ be tellin’ ye ‘I told ye so’, but I will be usin’ words to that effect.” Marcum said as he sat behind the table in his study. “I was right, aye?” Graeme knew any attempt to deny that everyone else had been right would seem ludicrous. Instead, he paced around his father’s study, his mind sprinting from one thought to another. “As was yer mum,” Marcum said as he poured himself a cup of fine whisky. “And yer brothers. They were right as well.” Graeme stopped pacing long enough to glare at his father. The man sat tall and proud in his chair, a look of deep satisfaction etched on his face. “Are ye quite done?” Marcum laughed, a deep, rumbling laugh that made his belly and shoulders shake. “Well, the cook, stable master, and blacksmith knew it as well.” Graeme let out a long heavy breath. “Aye, everyone on God’s earth knew but me.” “Aye, ye have the way of it, son.

It was a relief to see his father, who'd always been an unfailing source of reassurance and comfort. They clasped hands in a firm shake, and used their free arms to pull close for a moment. Such demonstrations of affection weren't common among fathers and sons of their rank, but then, they'd never been a conventional family. After a few hearty thumps on the back, Sebastian drew back and glanced over him with the attentive concern that hearkened to Gabriel's earliest memories. Not missing the traces of weariness on his face, his father lightly tousled his hair the way he had when he was a boy. "You haven't been sleeping." "I went carousing with friends for most of last night," Gabriel admitted. "It ended when we were all too drunk to see a hole through a ladder." Sebastian grinned and removed his coat, tossing the exquisitely tailored garment to a nearby chair. "Reveling in the waning days of bachelorhood, are we?" "It would be more accurate to say I'm thrashing like a drowning rat." "Same thing." Sebastian unfastened his cuffs and began to roll up his shirtsleeves. An active life at Heron's Point, the family estate in Sussex, had kept him as fit and limber as a man half his age. Frequent exposure to the sunlight had gilded his hair and darkened his complexion, making his pale blue eyes startling in their brightness. While other men of his generation had become staid and settled, the duke was more vigorous than ever, in part because his youngest son was still only eleven. The duchess, Evie, had conceived unexpectedly long after she had assumed her childbearing years were past. As a result there were eight years between the baby's birth and that of the next oldest sibling, Seraphina. Evie had been more than a little embarrassed to find herself with child at her age, especially in the face of her husband's teasing claims that she was a walking advertisement of his potency. And indeed, there have been a hint of extra swagger in Sebastian's step all through his wife's last pregnancy. Their fifth child was a handsome boy with hair the deep auburn red of an Irish setter. He'd been christened Michael Ivo, but somehow the pugnacious middle name suited him more than his given name. Now a lively, cheerful lad, Ivo accompanied his father nearly everywhere.

Jonathan Kent: I fear a day may come when the world needs to be saved from our son. All I ask is that, on that day—you find a way to save him too.

Jambo ambalo Mungu anataka tulitambue ni kwamba hatuko wenyewe katika bahari hii ya hewa. Hata nyangumi na wazira waovu wanapozunguka huko na huko baharini, ambao pia ni mapepo, wanaochukuliwa kama viumbe wabaya na wachafu na wala mizoga, wanaishi katika bahari hii ya hewa pamoja na sisi. Ni muhimu, kwa ajili ya ustawi wetu wa kiroho, kusikia onyo la Paulo katika Waefeso 6:10-12 kwamba vita yetu si dhidi ya hawa viumbe, na wanapambana usiku na mchana kutetea kile ambacho wanaamini ni cha kwao kwa sababu ya haki ya kuwepo hapa kwanza kabla yetu. Dunia, Biblia inatwambia, ilikuwa makazi yao ya kwanza (Yuda 1:6, KJV). Wanatuchukia kwa sababu taratibu tunakuwa Baba na Mwana, na kwa sababu wanajua hii dunia, urithi wetu, itachukuliwa kutoka mikononi mwao na kukabidhiwa kwa wale ambao ni watoto wa Mungu, wale ambao ni marafiki wa msalaba wa Yesu Kristo.

MY FATHER" You know I always had that power, power of words in my pen that could turn my darkest, miserable, unbearable life's moments into a hope for happiness. I always had that ability to make all my monsters and demons fade away and turn them into the piece of motivation that was worth having for a successful life. But My Father after everything you've sacrificed and everything you've been suffered just for the sake of our happiness I just realized that my words don't have enough power to Thank You. It will be nothing in front of your efforts. You made me everything I am today. So here's what i'm gonna do...! I'm gonna make you a promise that i will never let you down, I will always have your back and i'll always be there for you just like you are. I LOVE YOU Father...! You've always been my hero Regards, Your Son. A very Happy Father's day to you

My father nodded. His nod was for me. Different. But not different at all. My father understood. Maybe he had known. Maybe he hadn't. It didn't matter anymore. He understood. I knew he understood, just from his nod, just from his eyes on mine, making his eyes kind for me, and the wave of pain went away for a moment.

The heroin flowing through me, I thought about the last time I saw my father alive. He was drunk and overweight in a restaurant in Beverly Hills, and curling into myself on the bed I thought: What if I had done something that day? I had just sat passively in a restaurant booth as the midday light filled the half-empty dining room, pondering a decision. The decision was: should you disarm him? That was the word I remember: disarm. Should you tell him something that might not be the truth but would get the desired reaction? And what was I going to convince him of, even though it was a lie? Did it matter? Whatever it was, it would constitute a new beginning. The immediate line: You’re my father and I love you. I remember staring at the white tablecloth as I contemplated saying this. Could I actually do it? I didn’t believe it, and it wasn’t true, but I wanted it to be. For one moment, as my father ordered another vodka (it was two in the afternoon; this was his fourth) and started ranting about my mother and the slump in California real estate and how “your sisters” never called him, I realized it could actually happen, and that by saying this I would save him. I suddenly saw a future with my father. But the check came along with the drink and I was knocked out of my reverie by an argument he wanted to start and I simply stood up and walked away from the booth without looking back at him or saying goodbye and then I was standing in sunlight. Loosening my tie as a parking valet pulled up to the curb in the cream-colored 450 SL. I half smiled at the memory, for thinking that I could just let go of the damage that a father can do to a son. I never spoke to him again.

One is worthy as a son when he removes all his father’s troubles.

We start with a next-generation miso soup: Kyoto's famous sweet white miso whisked with dashi made from lobster shells, with large chunks of tender claw meat and wilted spinach bobbing on the soup's surface. The son takes a cube of topflight Wagyu off the grill, charred on the outside, rare in the center, and swaddles it with green onions and a scoop of melting sea urchin- a surf-and-turf to end all others. The father lays down a gorgeous ceramic plate with a poem painted on its surface. "From the sixteenth century," he tells us, then goes about constructing the dish with his son, piece by piece: First, a chunk of tilefish wrapped around a grilled matsutake mushroom stem. Then a thick triangle of grilled mushroom cap, plus another grilled stem the size of a D-sized battery, topped with mushroom miso. A pickled ginger shoot, a few tender soybeans, and the crowning touch, the tilefish skin, separated from its body and fried into a ripple wave of crunch. The rice course arrives in a small bamboo steamer. The young chef works quickly. He slices curtains of tuna belly from a massive, fat-streaked block, dips it briefly in house-made soy sauce, then lays it on the rice. Over the top he spoons a sauce of seaweed and crushed sesame seeds just as the tuna fat begins to melt into the grains below. A round of tempura comes next: a harvest moon of creamy pumpkin, a gold nugget of blowfish capped with a translucent daikon sauce, and finally a soft, custardy chunk of salmon liver, intensely fatty with a bitter edge, a flavor that I've never tasted before. The last savory course comes in a large ice block carved into the shape of a bowl. Inside, a nest of soba noodles tinted green with powdered matcha floating in a dashi charged with citrus and topped with a false quail egg, the white fashioned from grated daikon.

The more the father doubts his son, the more the son doubts his father. A transparent father is indeed an inevitable blessing a son can get!

Then as he's tucking me into bed, he's supposed to ask, How many stars? On a great day I'm supposed to say nine or ten. But if it was amazing, the best day I ever had, I'm supposed to cheat and say something like ten thousand stars.

The unrequited love of ones' only living offspring has its own particular slow acid burn

This horrible half-grief has made me feel complicit in darkness. I worry that my sadness will be interpreted as an endorsement of his choices—of his very existence—and in this matter I don’t want to be misunderstood, so I cannot admit that I grieve him, that I care at all for the loss of this monstrous man who raised me. And in the absence of healthy action I remain frozen, a sentient stone in the wake of my father’s death. I hated him. I hated him with a violent intensity I’ve never since experienced. But the fire of true hatred, I realize, cannot exist without the oxygen of affection. I would not hurt so much, or hate so much, if I did not care. And it is this, my unrequited affection for my father, that has always been my greatest weakness. So I lie here, marinating in a sorrow I can never speak of, while regret consumes my heart. I am an orphan.

Two nights after the Chaworth ball, Gabriel practiced at the billiards table in the private apartments above Jenner's. The luxurious rooms, which had once been occupied by his parents in the earlier days of their marriage, were now reserved for the convenience of the Challon family. Raphael, one of his younger brothers, usually lived at the club, but at the moment was on an overseas trip to America. He'd gone to source and purchase a large quantity of dressed pine timber on behalf of a Challon-owned railway construction company. American pine, for its toughness and elasticity, was used as transom ties for railways, and it was in high demand now that native British timber was in scarce supply. The club wasn't the same without Raphael's carefree presence, but spending time alone here was better than the well-ordered quietness of his terrace at Queen's Gate. Gabriel relished the comfortably masculine atmosphere, spiced with scents of expensive liquor, pipe smoke, oiled Morocco leather upholstery, and the acrid pungency of green baize cloth. The fragrance never failed to remind him of the occasions in his youth when he had accompanied his father to the club. For years, the duke had gone almost weekly to Jenner's to meet with managers and look over the account ledgers. His wife Evie had inherited it from her father, Ivo Jenner, a former professional boxer. The club was an inexhaustible financial engine, its vast profits having enabled the duke to improve his agricultural estates and properties, and accumulate a sprawling empire of investments. Gaming was against the law, of course, but half of Parliament were members of Jenner's, which had made it virtually exempt from prosecution. Visiting Jenner's with his father had been exciting for a sheltered boy. There had always been new things to see and learn, and the men Gabriel had encountered were very different from the respectable servants and tenants on the estate. The patrons and staff at the club had used coarse language and told bawdy jokes, and taught him card tricks and flourishes. Sometimes Gabriel had perched on a tall stool at a circular hazard table to watch high-stakes play, with his father's arm draped casually across his shoulders. Tucked safely against the duke's side, Gabriel had seen men win or lose entire fortunes in a single night, all on the tumble of dice.

This here is Orange Crush, son. It don't get better till you're legal.

Using my kind of logic if God and Jesus are one in the same I wonder if God and Goddess are also one and the same?

We must remember that we are sons (and daughters) of God, not because we are so good but because God is that good.

...why can't I stop all the moving and look out over the vast arrangements and find by the contours and colors and qualities of light where my father is, not to solve anything but just simply even to see it again one last time, before what, before it ends, before it stops. But it doesn't stop; it simply ends. It is a final pattern scattered without so much as a pause at the end, at the end of what, at the end of this.

With the sensation that he was passing through the Looking-Glass, Max stared at his father as if he had never seen him before—simultaneously impressed and unnerved at the thought that, after all these years, he still knew so little about him.

Anyone who reads my work will see that there are often difficult relationships between fathers and sons.