Fatherhood, in the sense of conscious begetting, is unknown to man. It is a mystical estate, an apostolic succession, from only begetter to only begotten. On that mystery and not on the madonna which the cunning Italian intellect flung to the mob of Europe the church is founded and founded irremovably because founded, like the world, macro and microcosm, upon the void. Upon incertitude, upon unlikelihood. Amor matris, subjective and objective genitive, may be the only true thing in life. Paternity may be a legal fiction. Who is the father of any son that any son should love him or he any son?

From “Ulysses” by James Joyce

James Joyce uses some harsh language to say we always know our mother, but in our father’s case we must rely on our trust.  “Paternity may be a legal fiction. Who is the father of any son that any son should love him or he any son?”  The father figure is full of tenderness.  Lucky are those who have felt paternal love.  It is so different from maternal love.   Both of our parents lavish us with unconditional and limitless affection. But the father’s love is prudent yet purposeful, soft yet encouraging, duty-bound yet full of teaching.