'a morbid surge of the love that terrified him'

His normal way of looking on Bishop was as an x signifying the general hideousness of fate. He did not believe that he himself was formed in the image and likeness of God but that Bishop was he had no doubt. The little boy was part of a simple equation that required no further solution, except at the moments when with little or no warning he would feel himself overwhelmed by the horrifying love. Anything he looked at too long could bring it on. Bishop did not have to be around. It could be a stick or a stone, the line of a shadow, the absurd old man’s walk of a starling crossing the sidewalk. If, without thinking, he lent himself to it, he would feel suddenly a morbid surge of the love that terrified him—powerful enough to throw him to the ground in an act of idiot praise. It was completely irrational and abnormal.

He was not afraid of love in general. He knew the value of it and how it could be used. He had seen it transform in cases where nothing else had worked, such as with his poor sister. None of this had the least bearing on his situation. The love that would overcome him was of a different order entirely. It was not the kind that could be used for the child’s improvement or his own. It was love without reason, love for something futureless, love that appeared to exist only to be itself, imperious and all demanding, the kind that would cause him to make a fool of himself in an instant. And it only began with Bishop. It began with Bishop and then like an avalanche covered everything his reason hated.

—Flannery O'Connor, The Violent Bear It Away (1960)

'All of them are different, like the fingers on a hand.'

[Pope] Francis has frequently used his public audience in St. Peter's Square as a venue to focus on the importance of the family.

In his talk, Francis repeatedly praised children as "the joy of family and society" and the key to humanity's future. As he often does, he departed from his prepared text to speak off the cuff, at one point noting that he was one of five children growing up in Argentina, and that when his mother was asked which was her favorite child she would compare them to her five fingers.

"If you hit this one it hurts me, if you hit that one, it hurts me," he recalled his mother saying. "All of them are mine. All of them are different, like the fingers on a hand."

—David Gibson, "Pope Francis: Opting not to have children a 'selfish choice,'" Religious News Service, February 11, 2015

'the unfathomed distances in himself'

From the first, the baby stirred in the young father a deep, strong emotion he dared scarcely acknowledge, it was so strong and came out of the dark of him. When he heard the child cry, a terror possessed him, because of the answering echo from the unfathomed distances in himself. Must he know in himself such distances, perilous and imminent?

—D.H. Lawrence, The Rainbow (1915)

It's Not an Uncommon Disease

Adam said, "I've wondered why a man of your knowledge would work a desert hill place." 

"It's because I haven't courage," said Samuel. "I could never quite take the responsibility. When the Lord God did not call my name, I might have called His name--but I did not. There you have the difference between greatness and mediocrity. It's not an uncommon disease. But it's nice for a mediocre man to know that greatness must be the loneliest state in the world." 

"I'd think there are degrees of greatness," Adam said. 

"I don't think so," said Samuel. "That would be like saying there is a little bigness. No. I believe when you come to that responsibility the hugeness and you are alone to make your choice. On one side you have warmth and companionship and sweet understanding, and on the other--cold, lonely greatness. There you make your choice. I'm glad I chose mediocrity, but how am I to say what reward might have come with the other? None of my children will be great either, except perhaps Tom. He's suffering over the choosing right now. It's a painful thing to watch. And somewhere in me I want him to say yes. Isn't that strange/ A father to want his son condemned to greatness! What selfishness that must be."

--John Steinbeck, East of Eden (1952)

The echo of himself

Beside the window he saw his daughter's crib, the child asleep within, and drawing near he stood over her. Hardly breathing, he stared. He saw the line of her jaw, the small closed lids of her eyes. She is so perfect, he thought, so fresh and new. The moon-light is an angel in whose wings she breathes and sleeps. She was no longer than his forearm, and when he reached down her head fit into the palm of his hand. He smoothed her hair, then drew his hand back and folded his arms over the railing.

Here he beheld her, and in the lovely way of her form he found the echo of himself.

--Shann Ray, "The Way Home," American Masculine (2011)