Many a night I woke to the murmer of paper and knew (Dad) was up, sitting in the kitchen with frayed King James – oh, but he worked that book; he held to it like a rope ladder.
If my children think I’m genuine, no one else’s opinion matters to me.
We are all the product of our past and have to live with our memories and personality they cannot be erased.
I assumed my first undivided responsibility.
Most people who are would each not be in love with their partner, if they did not have the kind of genitals they have.
We grow up opposing our parents only to become like them enough to oppose our children who behave as we once did-a reminder of how dreadful we were toward those now vindicated grandparents. And you thought God had no sense of humor.
Family likeness has often a deep sadness in it. Nature, that great tragic dramatist, knits us together by bone and muscle, and divides us by the subtler web of our brains; blends yearning and repulsion; and ties us by our heart-strings to the beings that jar us at every movement.
The sound of her breathing reminded me, as it so often did, of how vulnerable she was. And how vulnerable we were because of how much we loved her. The fear – that something could happen to her at any moment, something I’d be helpless to stop – had become so omnipresent in my life that I sometimes pictured it growing, like a third arm, out of the center of my chest.
Nobody works harder at learning than a curious kid.
Parents are the last people on Earth who ought to have children.