He never cried, not even when his alarm went off. Swaddled in his Moses basket, wires trailing out the bottom, his monitor flashing green, green, green, his entire four-pound body motionless except his eyelids, it seemed he understood everything I was working so hard to understand: his mother's love, his brother's ceasless crying: he was alreday forgiving me my shortcomings as a father; he was a distillation of a dozen generations, all stripped into a single flame and stowed still-burning inside the this slip of his ribs. I'd hold him to the window and he's stare out into the night, blue tributaries of veins pulsing his neck, his big eyelids slipping down now and then, and it would feel as if tethers were falling away, and the two of us were gently rising, through the glass, through the trees, through the interweaving layers of atmosphere, into whatever was beyond the sky. Anthony Doerr
I don't remember who said this, but there really are places in the heart you don't even know exist until you love a child.
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Anne Lamott
Your kids require you most of all to love them for who they are, not to spend your whole time trying to correct them.
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Bill Ayers
That's the nature of being a parent, Sabine has discovered. You'll love your children far more than you ever loved your parents, and -- in the recognition that your own children cannot fathom the depth of your love -- you come to understand the tragic,...
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Ursula Hegi
My father gave me the greatest gift anyone could give another person, he believed in me.
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Jim Valvano
While I was drying off Maddie after her bath tonight, she said, 'I love you' to me for the first time. It sounded like 'All lub boo, ' but I didn't care. To reciprocate, I showed her what an ex- Marine looks like when he...
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Jim Beaver
More Quotes By Anthony Doerr
When I lost my sight, Werner, people said I was brave. When my father left, people said I was brave. But it is not bravery; I have no choice. I wake up and live my life. Don't you do the same?
I am only alive because I have not yet died.
One night he sits up. In cots around him are a few dozen sick or wounded. A warm September wind pours across the countryside and sets the walls of the tent rippling. Werner’s head swivels lightly on his neck. <span style="margin:15px; display:block"></span>The wind is strong...
Time is a slippery thing: lose hold of it once, and its string might sail out of your hands forever.
Here's what I mean by the miracle of language. When you're falling into a good book, exactly as you might fall into a dream, a little conduit opens, a passageway between a reader's heart and a writer's, a connection that transcends the barriers of continents...
