The thing that impresses me most about America is the way parents obey their children.

Familiarity breeds contempt—and children.

Few sons are equal to their fathers; most fall short, all too few surpass them. 

In our family, as far as we are concerned, we were born and what happened before that is myth.

Family! Thou art the home of all social evil, a charitable institution for comfortable women, an anchorage for house-fathers, and a hell for children.

He that raises a large family, does indeed, while he lives to observe them, stand…a broader mark for sorrow; but then he stands a broader mark for pleasure too. 

My father! The sun is my father, and the earth is my mother, and on her bosom I will recline.

I cannot bear a parent’s tears.

He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune; for they are impediments to great enterprises, either of virtue or mischief.

A family’s photograph album is generally about the extended family—and, often, is all that remains of it.

In peace, children inter their parents; war violates the order of nature and causes parents to inter their children.