He nodded and leaned down to kiss me. I let him, Dad be damned.
S.C. StephensLook at that," he said. "How the ink bleeds." He loved the way it looked, to write on a thick pillow of the pad, the way the thicker width of paper underneath was softer and allowed for a more cushiony interface between pen and surface, which meant more time the two would be in contact for any given point, allowing the fiber of the paper to pull, through capillary action, more ink from the pen, more ink, which meant more evenness of ink, a thicker, more even line, a line with character, with solidity. The pad, all those ninety-nine sheets underneath him, the hundred, the even number, ten to the second power, the exponent, the clean block of planes, the space-time, really, represented by that pad, all of the possible drawings, graphs, curves, relationships, all of the answers, questions, mysteries, all of the problems solvable in that space, in those sheets, in those squares.
Charles YuStichwörter: writing father son drawing calligraphy diagrams graph-paper
I am haunted by the ghost of my father, I think that should allow me to quote Hamlet as much as I please.
Erin MorgensternStichwörter: shakespeare hamlet father ghost
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.
Bret Easton EllisStichwörter: father father-and-son
No love is greater than that of a father for His son.
Dan BrownStichwörter: father son father-and-son
It's rally bad when dads cry.
Sarah Ockler[My father] loved me tenderly and shyly from a distance, and later on took a naive pride in seeing my name in print.
Arthur KoestlerStichwörter: father father-and-son
Certain is it that there is no kind of affection so purely angelic as of a father to a daughter. In love to our wives there is desire; to our sons, ambition, but to our daughters there is something which there are no words to express.
Joseph AddisonBuat saya, ayah adalah seperti rumah ini. Saya tidak perlu menghuni setiap ruang dalam rumah, hanya sudut kecil di bawah atap. Saya tidak perlu menjadi seluruh dunia ayah, hanya bagian favoritnya. Saya seperti jenis wine kesukaannya, gadis kecilnya yang sering duduk di atas pangkuannya, memohon supaya dapat mencicip isi gelasnya.
Winna EfendiStichwörter: father
He had a charm about him sometimes, a warmth that was irresistible, like sunshine. He planted Saffy triumphantly on the pavement, opened the taxi door, slung in his bag, gave a huge film-star wave, called, "All right, Peter? Good weekend?" to the taxi driver, who knew him well and considered him a lovely man, and was free.
"Back to the hard life," he said to Peter, and stretched out his legs.
Back to the real life, he meant. The real world where there were no children lurking under tables, no wives wiping their noses on the ironing, no guinea pigs on the lawn, nor hamsters in the bedrooms, and no paper bags full of leaking tomato sandwiches.
Stichwörter: work leaving father taxi
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