And my dad, you're a great actor but you're a better father.
[while burning the Narrator's hand with lye] Tyler Durden: Shut up! Our fathers were our models for God. If our fathers bailed, what does that tell you about God? Narrator: No, no, I... don't... Tyler Durden: Listen to me! You have to consider the possibility that God does not like you. He never wanted you. In all probability, he hates you. This is not the worst thing that can happen. Narrator: It isn't? Tyler Durden: We don't need him!
Sadusky: The Templars and the Freemasons believed that the treasure was too great for any one man to have, not even a king. That's why they went to such lengths to keep it hidden. Ben Gates: That's right. The founding fathers believed the same thing about government. I figure their solution will work for the treasure too. Sadusky: Give it to the people.
George: [shouts] Shut the fuck up, Clyde! You faggot! Fucking skinny butt-munching faggot. I hate you! You know that? I really do! Because all you do is fucking prance around school, talking about your fucking faggoty fairy fathers! I'll tell you what! I don't wanna hear about your fucking fathers and how they're assholes work, all right? It makes me sick, all right, and I fucking hope they fucking die of fucking fag disease! Yeah! [pause] George: And speaking of dead... fathers... I just remembered why bonehead white-trash fucking donkey-dick Marty got so fucking freaked when I started talking about his "daddy". His neanderthal, drunk father put a gun in his mouth and splattered his brains all over the wall. You know, I almost forgot my mom told me that. She said, "His daddy splattered his brains all over the wall." I thought it was sad at first. But now? I like it. "His daddy splattered his brains all over the wall." His daddy splattered his brains all over the wall...
Women writers make for rewarding (and efficient) lovers. They are clever liars to fathers and husbands; yet they never hold their tongues too long, nor keep ardent typing fingers still.
Walter Sparrow: I could have died there on the street, but that wouldn't have been justice. At least not the justice fathers teach their sons.
Prime Minister: Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often, it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge - they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I've got a sneaking suspicion... love actually is all around.
It was Sunday, and Mumma had gone next door with Lena and the little ones. Under the pepper tree in the yard Pa was sorting, counting, the empty bottles he would sell back: the bottles going clink clink as Pa stuck them in the sack. The fowls were fluffing in the dust and sun: that crook-neck white pullet Mumma said she would hit on the head if only she had the courage to; but she hadn't.
Elvis: That's my daughter. JFK: I know. We weren't there for our kids when they needed us, were we? Elvis: Man, if I could just talk to her again... tell her I love her... try and make things right somehow. JFK: No time for regrets, Elvis. We were the best fathers we could be under the circumstances. Elvis: Yeah, I guess, no time for regrets. We got business to take care of.
Cooper: You know America was founded by prudes. Prudes who left Europe because they hated all the kinky, steamy European sex that was going on. And now I, Cooper Harris, will return to the land of my perverted forefathers and claim my birthright.
School P.A.: [voice-over] Farouk Abdul, please report to the principal's office. One of your fathers is here.
Joe Miller: We're standing here in Philadelphia, the, uh, city of brotherly love, the birthplace of freedom, where the, uh, founding fathers authored the Declaration of Independence, and I don't recall that glorious document saying anything about all straight men are created equal. I believe it says all men are created equal.
Kenneth: I been to a lot of funerals. Folded the flag, and given it to a lot of wives and fathers and kids. And I told them how sorry I was. But that's never really what I was feeling. In the back of my mind, I was always saying, 'Better them, then me.' But I don't believe that now. Because now I realize that there are some things worse then death, and one of them is sitting here, waiting to die.
Laurence: Fathers remember the lessons. Sons remember the mistakes.
Father Malone: So now you know. Elizabeth Williams: That our forefathers murdered every man, woman and child on the Elizabeth Dane? And this town was built on nothing but lies? Father Malone: And now they've come for revenge.
Mincayani: Do it! I killed your father! Do it! Steve Saint: No one took my fathers life. He gave it.
Jimmy: [Meeting his father after the game] You came. Jim Morris Sr.: [Nods] Wasn't going to miss this one. [pause] Jim Morris Sr.: Watching you out there tonight... not many fathers get to do that.
Mr. Levov was on of those slum-reared Jewish fathers whose rough-hewn, undereducated perspective goaded a whole generation of striving, college educated Jewish sons; a father for whom everything is an unshakable duty, for whom there is a right way and a wrong way and nothing in between, a father whose compound ambitions, biases, and beliefs is so unruffled by careful thinking that he isn't as easy to escape from as he seems. Limited men with limitless energy; men quick to be friendly and quick to be fed up; men for whom the most serious think in life is to keep going despite everything. And we were their sons. It was our job to love them.
They were talking more distantly than if they were strangers who had just met, for if they had been he would have been interested in her just because of that, and curious, but their common past was a wall of indifference between them. Kitty knew too well that she had done nothing to beget her father's affection, he had never counted in the house and had been taken for granted, the bread-winner who was a little despised because he could provide no more luxuriously for his family; but she had taken for granted that he loved her just because he was her father, and it was a shock to discover that his heart was empty of feeling for her. She had known that they were all bored by him, but it had never occurred to her that he was equally bored by them. He was as ever kind and subdued, but the sad perspicacity which she had learnt in suffering suggested to her that, though he probably never acknowledged it to himself and never would, in his heart he disliked her.
As he grew older, which was mostly in my absence, my firstborn son, Alexander, became ever more humorous and courageous. There came a time, as the confrontation with the enemies of our civilization became more acute, when he sent off various applications to enlist in the armed forces. I didn't want to be involved in this decision either way, especially since I was being regularly taunted for not having 'sent' any of my children to fight in the wars of resistance that I supported. (As if I could 'send' anybody, let alone a grown-up and tough and smart young man: what moral imbeciles the 'anti-war' people have become.)
I was eleven when my father left, so neither of us really knew our fathers. I
Spiritual fathers have influence over the lives of individuals. Patriarchs have influence over families. The devil has been able to destroy families because there is a lack of spiritual fathers and patriarchs.
Doesn't seem quite real. It's not meaningful. I can't quite imagine myself being 73. That's the age my father was! [Laughter.] How can I be his age? It's weird.
What I really want to tell him is to pick up that baby of his and hold her tight, to set the moon on the edge of her crib and to hang her name up in the stars.
I believe that what we become depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments, when they aren't trying to teach us. We are formed by little scraps of wisdom.
To be the father of growing daughters is to understand something of what Yeats evokes with his imperishable phrase 'terrible beauty.' Nothing can make one so happily exhilarated or so frightened: it's a solid lesson in the limitations of self to realize that your heart is running around inside someone else's body. It also makes me quite astonishingly calm at the thought of death: I know whom I would die to protect and I also understand that nobody but a lugubrious serf can possibly wish for a father who never goes away.
Let me say for now that we knew once the Creation was broken, true fathering would be much more lacking than mothering. Don't misunderstand me, both are needed- but an emphasis on fathering is necessary because of the enormity of its absence
I wondered what my father had looked like that day, how he had felt, marrying the lively and beautiful girl who was my mother. I wondered what his life was like now. Did he ever think of us? I wanted to hate him, but I couldn't; I didn't know him well enough. Instead, I wondered about him occasionally, with a confused kind of longing. There was a place inside me carved out for him; I didn't want it to be there, but it was. Once, at the hardware store, Brooks had shown me how to use a drill. I'd made a tiny hole that went deep. The place for my father was like that.
Many writers, especially male ones, have told us that it is the decease of the father which opens the prospect of one's own end, and affords an unobstructed view of the undug but awaiting grave that says 'you're next.' Unfilial as this may seem, that was not at all so in my own case. It was only when I watched Alexander [my own son] being born that I knew at once that my own funeral director had very suddenly, but quite unmistakably, stepped onto the stage. I was surprised by how calmly I took this, but also by how reluctant I was to mention it to my male contemporaries.
No one is fool enough to choose war instead of peace - in peace sons bury fathers, but in war fathers bury sons.
We are not called to fight the battles of our fathers with a blind faith. We are called to examine their wars, and moreover, to discern whether their actions were sinful or just. Furthermore, we are called to decide whether to correct the errors of our fathers battles through either peace, war, or some combination of the two. We are not bonded to our fathers' fate, but rather called to build on their trespasses or triumphs for a better future.
Sometimes I'd see my father, walking past my building on his way to another nowhere. I could have given him a key, offered a piece of my floor. A futon. A bed. But I never did. If I let him inside I would become him, the line between us would blur, my own slow-motion car wreck would speed up. The slogan on the side of a moving company truck read TOGETHER WE ARE GOING PLACES--modified by a vandal or a disgruntled employee to read TOGETHER WE ARE GOING DOWN. If I went to the drowning man the drowning man would pull me under. I couldn't be his life raft.
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