Mother And Son Quotes

“It's in these moments, next to you, that I envy words for doing what we can never do-- how they can tell all of themselves simply by standing still, simply by being. Imagine I could lie down beside you and my whole body, every cell, radiates a clear, singular meaning, not so much a writer as a word pressed down beside you.”
― Ocean Vuong, On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous

“Wylan wanted to scream. The closet was crammed with paintings—landscapes, different views of the hospital grounds, a lake in sun and shadow, and there, repeated again and again, was the face of a little boy with ruddy curls and bright blue eyes.”
― Leigh Bardugo, Crooked Kingdom

“He could take his mother from this place. They could go somewhere warm. He could put her in front of a piano, get her to play, take her somewhere full of bright colors and beautiful sounds. They could go to Novyi Zem. They could go anywhere.”
― Leigh Bardugo, Crooked Kingdom

“Don’t blame your mother, Tony. I was the one being promiscuous.” Owen said. Evelyn nodded. “And you know how much I love Greek mythology, Son.”
― Delora Dennis, Same Old Truths

“Yo he vuelto a parirte, con el mismo dolor, para que vivas un poco más, para que no desaparezcas de la memoria. Y lo he hecho con palabras, porque ellas, que son móviles, que hablan siempre de manera distinta, no petrifican, no hacen las veces de tumba. Son la poca sangre que puedo darte, que puedo darme.”
― Piedad Bonnett, Lo que no tiene nombre

“Don’t blame your mother, Tony. I was the one being promiscuous.” Owen said.
Evelyn nodded. “And you know how much I love Greek mythology, Son.”
― Delora Dennis, Same Old Truths

“On Friday, Rose invites Sophie and I around to the house. We arrive at eight, armed with some fancy wine Dad handed us from his cellar. Unsurprisingly, it’s Rose who answers the door. Crawford’s there, too, talking like he’s done ten lines of cocaine.

‘Unco Tom, you missed what happened today because I was at the table with the naked sand and I was making a big cake and then I gave it to Mummy and I said “eat a bit of this cake” and she did, she ate a bit, but it was really yucky because it was made of the naked sand!’

‘Kinetic sand,’ Rose says, ‘It’s called kinetic sand.’

But Crawford’s way too wired to listen. ‘And then after lunch Mummy was changing Ellie’s nappy and we took Ellie’s nappy off and Ellie farted and a poo fell out and went on the floor!’

‘Darling,’ Rose interrupts, ‘I’m not sure everyone likes that story as much as you do.’

Perhaps not, but it’s absolutely slayed Crawford, who’s laughing so hard that he’s having to gasp between phrases. ‘And… and it was… so smelly… Mummy had to… open the window!”
― Andy Marr, A Matter of Life and Death

“You have a plaster on your head,’ my mother says.

‘Oh!’ I say, flushed with relief. ‘Yes. I walked into a table.’

‘With your head?’

Ah. Good point. ‘Actually, it was a door.’

My mother smiles thinly. ‘Of course, it was.”
― Andy Marr, A Matter of Life and Death

“Gabriel nudged her with his shoulder. "Look."
The newborn goat was standing on his own wobbly legs, taking drunken steps. When he toppled sideways, he bleated indignantly.
Gabriel started to reach for him, but Penny held him back. "Wait."
Marigold roused herself and ambled over to her kid, licking him about the head until George lurched and swayed himself to his hooves, and when he nosed at her swollen underside, she allowed him to nurse.
"Oh. That's lovely." Penny snuggled under Gabriel's arm.
"Thank God she finally took to him," he said.
"How could she not? Look how adorable he is. Best little goat in the world.”
― Tessa Dare, The Wallflower Wager

“They drank from a spring which filled an ancient stone trough behind the ruin. Beyond it lay overgrown beds and plants John had never set eyes on before: tall resinous fronds, prickly shrubs, long grey-green leaves hot to the tongue. Nestling among them he found the root whose scent drifted among the trees like a ghost, sweet and tarry. He knelt and pressed it to his nose.
'That was called silphium.' His mother stood behind him. 'It grew in Saturnus's first garden.'
She showed him the most ancient trees in the orchards, their gnarled trunks cloaked in grey lichen. Palm trees had grown there too once, she claimed. Now even their stumps had gone.
Each day, John left the hearth to forage in the wreckage of Belicca's gardens. His nose guided him through the woods. Beyond the chestnut avenue, the wild skirrets, alexanders and broom grew in drifts. John chased after rabbits or climbed trees in search of birds' eggs. He returned with mallow seeds or chestnuts that they pounded into meal then mixed with water and baked on sticks. The unseasonal orchards yielded tiny red and gold-streaked apples, hard green pears and sour yellow cherries.”
― Lawrence Norfolk, John Saturnall's Feast

“There’s no understanding the power of a mother, of Zana in particular, because she was the only one who didn’t swallow the story of the English bank. When a son’s fate is at stake, no detective in the world can find more clues than a mother.”
― Fábio Moon, Two Brothers

“As he lifted the leather-bound cover, the musty smell of paper rose up. He turned the first mottled leaf and looked down at an elaborately drawn image. A brimming goblet was decorated with curling vines and bunches of grapes. But instead of wine or water, the cup was filled with words.
John stared at the alien symbols. He could not read. Around the goblet a strange garden grew. Honeycombs dripped and flowers like crocuses sprouted among thick-trunked trees. Vines draped themselves about their branches which bristled with leaves and bent under heavy bunches of fruit. In the far background John spied a roof with a tall chimney. His mother settled beside him.
'Palm trees...' she said. 'These are dates. Honey came from the hives and saffron came from these flowers. Grapes swelled on the vine...”
― Lawrence Norfolk, John Saturnall's Feast

“Justin frowned. "Do I have to stay in the nursery? With the the babies?"
“Darling, you’re four years old—”
“Almost five!”
Phoebe's lips quirked. There was a wealth of interest and empathy in the gaze she bent on her small son. “You may stay in my room, if you like,” she offered.
The child was appalled by the suggestion.
“I can’t sleep in your room,” he said indignantly.
“Why not?”
“People might think we were married!”
West concentrated on a distant spot on the floor, struggling hold back a laugh. When he was able, he took a steadying breath and risked a glance at Lady Clare. To his secret delight, she appeared to be considering the point as if it were entirely valid.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Devil's Daughter

“John scrambled up and down the terraces and banks, hunting out the secret breaks in the thickets or crawling through hollows woven from sharp-spined stems. Blackberries lured him into sun-pricked chambers. Old byways closed and new ones opened, drifts of nettles surging forward then dying back. The sun beat down until the grass on the green parched. But on the high slopes the rank stems sprang up as lush as ever. Springs ran beneath the turf, his mother told him. Enough water to fill a river.
Together they pulled peppery watercress from the edges of marshy puddles and grubbed up tiny sweet carrots, dark purple under the dusty earth. Clover petals yielded honey-beads and jellylike mallow seeds savored of nuts. Tiny strawberries sheltered under ragged leaves and sweet blackberries swelled behind palisades of finger-pricking thorns.”
― Lawrence Norfolk, John Saturnall's Feast

“Clearings opened on either side. Familiar smells drifted in the air: fennel, skirrets and alexanders, then wild garlic, radishes and broom. John looked about while his mother tramped ahead. Then a new scent rose from the wild harvest, strong in John's nostrils. He had smelt it the night the villagers had driven them up the slope. Now, as his mother pushed through a screen of undergrowth, he saw its origin.
Ranks of fruit trees rose before him, their trunks shaggy with lichen, their branches decked with pink and white blossom. John and his mother walked forward into an orchard. Soon apple trees surrounded them, the sweet scent heavy in the air. Pears succeeded them, then cherries, then apples again. But surely the blossom was too late, John thought. Only the trees' arrangement was familiar for the trunks were planted in diamonds, five to a side. He knew it from the book.
The heavy volume bumped against his mother's leg. He gave her a curious look but she seemed unsurprised by the orchards. As the scent of blossom faded, another teased his nostrils, remembered from the same night. Lilies and pitch. Looking ahead, John saw only a stand of chestnuts overwhelmed by ivy, the glossy leaves blurring the trunks and boughs into a screen.”
― Lawrence Norfolk, John Saturnall's Feast

“Sensing another maternal oration coming on, one of those I-bore-you-and-thus-know-what’s-best-for-you lectures, Richard made a pointed move towards the door. ‘If that’s all for the moment, Mother, I really must be off. The War Office…’
The marchioness gave another of her infamous
harrumphs.
‘Have a good time at White’s, darling,’ she said pointedly.
Richard paused halfway out the door and flashed her an incredulous look. ‘How do you always know?’
Lady Uppington looked smug. ‘Because I’m your mother. Now, shoo! Get along with you!”
― Lauren Willig, The Secret History of the Pink Carnation

“But our mother, the most distant from him, perhaps, seemed the only one who could accept him as he was, maybe because she didn't try to find an explanation.”
― Italo Calvino, The Baron in the Trees

“She had burdened the boy with worries and chores before sending him away. He never complained, but she worried it would weaken him and cause illness. She longed to see him and check his face, the lines around his mouth, the dimple on his chin, and the look in his eyes. It would tell her all she needed to know.”
― Marilyn Rodwell, The Wedding Drums

“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?”
― Chester Brown, I Never Liked You: A Comic Strip Narrative

“Dead. He thought to himself, all dead. For me, you have been dead a long time, as long as I can remember. You, who gave a life to me and to Taro and tried to make us conform to a mold which never existed for us because we never knew of it, were never alive to us in the way that other sons and daughters know and feel and see their parents. But you made so many mistakes. It was a mistake to have ever left Japan. It was a mistake to leave Japan and to come to America and to have two sons and it was a mistake to think that you could keep us completely Japanese in a country such as America. With me, you almost succeeded, or so it seemed. Sometimes I think it would have been better had you fully succeeded. You would have been happy and so might I have known a sense of completeness. But the mistakes you made were numerous enough and big enough so that they, in turn, made inevitable my mistake. I have had much time to feel sorry for myself. Suddenly I feel sorry for you. Not sorry that you are dead, but sorry for the happiness you have not known. So, now you are free. Go back quickly. Go to the Japan that you so long remembered and loved, and be happy.”
― John Okada, No-No Boy

“A man can have many wives. But he can have only one mother.”
― Soroosh Shahrivar, Tajrish

“Only then did he hear the small gasp—a soundless cry—and feel his mother’s cold fingers tightening on his arm. He turned toward her. Saw the red stain spreading across the front of her dress where the sword had driven in. Through him. Through her. There, just above her heart. The too-small hole of a too-great wound. His mother’s eyes met his.
“Rhy,” she said, a small, disconcerted crease between her brows, the same face she’d made a hundred times whenever he and Kell got into trouble, whenever he shouted or bit his nails or did anything that wasn’t princely.
The furrow deepened, even as her eyes went glassy, one hand drifting toward the wound, and then she was falling. He caught her, stumbled as the sudden weight tore against his open, ruined chest.
“No, no, no,” he said, sinking with her to the prismed floor. No, it wasn’t fair. For once, he’d been fast enough. For once, he’d been strong enough. For once—
“Rhy,” she said again, so gently—too gently.
“No.”
Her bloody hands reached for his face, tried to cup his cheek, and missed, streaking red along his jaw.
“Rhy …”
His tears spilled over her fingers.
“No.”
Her hand fell away, and her body slumped against him, still, and in that sudden stillness, Rhy’s world narrowed to the spreading stain, the lingering furrow between his mother’s eyes.
Only then did the pain come, folding over him with such sudden force, such horrible weight, that he clutched his chest and began to scream.”
― V.E. Schwab, A Conjuring of Light

“For what it’s worth,” said the Veskan prince, raising his blade. “I really only came for the queen.”
His mother spread her arms, the air around her fingers shimmering with frost. “Rhy,” she said, her voice a plume of mist. “Run.”
Before the word was fully out, Col was surging forward.
The Veskan was fast, but Rhy was faster, or so it seemed as the queen’s magic weighted Col’s limbs. The icy air wasn’t enough to stop the attack, but it slowed Col long enough for Rhy to throw himself in front of his mother, the blade meant for her driving instead into his chest.”
― V.E. Schwab, A Conjuring of Light

“Hijo de mi corazon, I’ll tell you a secret. You help me bear it. You help me bear all my losses. You, Ari.”
― Benjamin Alire Sáenz, Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe

“Wolf, as he watched her, felt weak, despicable, faltering. He felt like a finical attendant watching the splendid fury of some Sophoclean heroine. He became aware that her anger leaped up from some incalculable crevasse in the rock crust of the universe, such as he himself had never approached. The nature of her feelings, its directness, its primordial simplicity, reduced his own emotion to something ridiculous. She towered above him there with that grand convulsed face and those expanded breasts; while her fine hands, clutching at her belt, seemed to display a wild desire to strip naked before him, to overwhelm him with the wrath of her naked maternal body, bare to the outrage of his impiety.”
― John Cowper Powys, Wolf Solent

“Only you don’t change, Omar. You’re still a wreck. Look at your clothes, your hair…the hour you arrive at home. Now you have no father, you should look for a job and stop with this idle lunacy. Your father couldn’t bear looking at you like this. He couldn’t bear watching your life thrown away.”
― Fábio Moon, Two Brothers

“I tried to go to group counseling, but the lady said they were full and so when I tried a 1-on-1 with a counselor, they didn’t respond to my calls. I tried so many times. It’s already so embarrassing asking for help. And you have to pick up my calls, too. Please, mom. When you don’t pick up the phone, my head goes all over the place and I think you’re dead.”
― Karl Kristian Flores, The Goodbye Song

“Self-discovery journeys are always risky, but this one leads to reconciliation between mother and son.
A Hitchhiker's Big Adventure”
― Jeff Rasley, Jeffrey Rasley

“And just as he was describing the event, his body began to slightly tremble again - a visceral reaction to the memory of his mother. The trauma of her leaving had seeped into his cells.”
― Juliette Rose Kerr, To Fill a Jar With Water

“The Mad Room

It’s where I go when I’ve lost my temper,
my mind on fire, no way around or out
of the chair on the dirt floor in the cellar.

I’m not one to give into her pressure,
as corporal punishment is all it’s about.
It’s where I go when I’ve lost my temper.

Why does it seem she relishes trouble?
The soap in my mouth, the foamy shout,
only the hard chair hears my whimper.

It’s where I go when I’ve lost my temper.
The bare light bulb hums, little doubt
I will die alone, kids the curious spider.

My bottled-up scream, I can never tell her
comes from the fear of living without
her love, not from her duty as a mother.

The room closes in, but I don’t bother
to move an inch. Everything is silent
except the hiss of pipes, an angry mother.
It’s where I go when I’ve lost my temper.”
― Jim Frazee