Victor Borge Quotes

I can't read a note. I have lots of discipline, but I can't sit still at any instrument.

Learning to dislike children at an early age saves a lot of expense and aggravation later in life.

I probably only cried five or six times in my life and I think four of those times was from my daddy kicking my butt.

I had piano lessons when I was a kid, like most people. And hated them, like most people. And quit, like most people.

There's always blood on the carpet when I play Beethoven at the piano. I hate playing the piano! And it's so hard to fight for Beethoven's soul! But that's what I have to do!

When I was five, I discovered a secret box that contained Mummy's stage makeup. It was like finding buried treasure. I tried the rouge, the eye shadow, the lipstick. But I couldn't get the rouge off. Mummy spanked me terribly.

We had to go to bed by 8 P.M. My siblings and I would often play cards under the bed-sheets. But we would get caught and then were made to practise harder. My father would say, 'You need to work even more if you aren't tired enough to go to sleep.'

My father was never very friendly. When I was growing up, I thought the doorbell ringing was a signal to pretend you weren't home.

My mom is one of those really angry moms who gets mad at absolutely everything. Once when I was a little kid, I accidentally knocked a Flintstones glass off the kitchen table. She said, 'Well, dammit, we can't have nice things.'

If you were mean to your parents, they'd give you a good belt in the gob and send you flying across the room.

Oh aye...my Father would thrash me every now and then. He'd talk while he did it too! He'd hit me and shout, 'Have ye had enough?' Had enough? Whit kind of question is that? 'Why, Father, would another kick in the balls be out of the question???'

I kicked a boy in the shins in second grade for making fun of my father.

I could pull all kinds of games on my mother. I couldn't pull any games on my father.

My Papa's Waltz: The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy; But I hung on like death: Such waltzing was not easy. We romped until the pans Slid from the kitchen shelf; My mother's countenance Could not unfrown itself. The hand that held my wrist Was battered on one knuckle; At every step you missed My right ear scraped a buckle. You beat time on my head With a palm caked hard by dirt, Then waltzed me off to bed Still clinging to your shirt.

This is my father. Try what you can with him! He won't listen to me, because he remembers what a fool I was when I was a baby.

It must infuriate our children to see us always so much more forbearing with everybody else's.

My father used to take off his belt and give me a crack. And I'm all right.

As we try to change, we will discover within us a fierce struggle between our loyalty to that battle-scarred victim of his own childhood, our father, and the father we want to be. We must meet our childhood father at close range: get to know him, learn to forgive him, and somehow, go beyond him.

Freud, Sigmund: A man so dissatisfied with his own mother and father that he devoted his life to convincing everyone who would listen — or better still, talk — that their parents were just as bad.

When I was a boy, we were the only Jewish family in a terribly anti-Semitic neighborhood. Those streets weren't any fun for us but our parents never found that out. In a way, you avoid telling your parents what happened to you during those days.

I hate pants. This is something I have inherited from my father. He despised pants, and my mother was never allowed to wear them at home. We're talking about a different time period now, when the man was much more the ruler of the house. But I still feel that way, and neither my mother nor Maria is allowed to go out with me in pants.

crawling up into daddy's lap when dad was still DADDY nodding my head against his chest soaking in the comfort of his heart LISTENING to the thump...thump somewhere beneath muscle and breastbone I remember his arms their sublime ENCIRCLING and the shawdow of his voice "I love you, little girl. Put away your bad dreams. Daddy's here" I put them away, Until Daddy became my nightmare that one that came HOME from work everyday and instead of picking me up, chased me far far away

Reflecting back on my childhood, I know it wasn't functional. I was very unconditionally loved and accepted, I felt, by my father.

That was my earliest maladaptive coping mechanism I forged when I was a kid. I found that my fists weren't going to do any significant protective work for me, so my mouth was it. Making my father laugh was a way to control him.

I came home one day from school after being chased by kids singing “Yellow Submarine”, and I didn't understand why. It just seemed surreal: why are they singing that song to me? I came home and I freaked out on my dad: 'Why didn't you tell me you were in The Beatles?' And he said, 'Oh, sorry. Probably should have told you that.'