My Father Quotes
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My father belongs to the generation that fought the war in the 1940s. When I was a kid my father told me stories - not so many, but it meant a lot to me. I wanted to know what happened then, to my father's generation. It's a kind of inheritance, the memory of it.
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What a charming companion, what a delightful parent, what a courteous and engaging friend my Father would have been, and would pre-eminently have been to me, if it had not been for this stringent piety which ruined it all.
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Of all things I liked books best. My father had a large library and whenever I could manage I tried to satisfy my passion for reading.
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My father is incapable of showing much affection, or even of carrying on a conversation. I didn't want to have a relationship with him just because he's my blood relative. It would bore me.
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I love being alone. I learned that from my father, I think, who loved his own company.
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There is nothing about resilience that I can say that my father did not first utter silently in eighteen years of living inside a two-dimensional cutout of himself.
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My father decided he would read everything that I read. Maybe that was our way of talking.
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The one man other than my father who made the most lasting impression was an uncle, Serge B. Benson. He taught me in three different classes - but above all, he taught me lessons in moral, physical, and intellectual courage that I have tried to apply in later life.
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The Time that Remains is a way of interpreting a certain ambience or emotion. These are the stories that my father told me over the course of fifteen or twenty years. I used to listen to him. From the cowardly part of my character, I'm always in fear of not telling the right story. I'm not interested in making epics.
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My father always told me: 'Give somebody a hand and he'll take an arm.
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My father is Swedish and my mother is French.
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I could have asked my father lots of questions. I could have. But there was something in his face and eyes and in his crooked smile that prevented me from asking. I guess I didn’t believe he wanted me to know who he was. So I just collected clues. Watching my father read that book was another clue in my collection. Some day all the clues would come together. And I would solve the mystery of my father.
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Initially, my father opposed the idea of joining films and did not want me to move out, but now I'm closest to him and have his full support.
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I've never been desperate to please my father.
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My father was not a musical man.
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A few months ago, I would have thrown this book down in disgust and walked away—maybe even returned home, where the only books I knew reminded me of my father. But now… My fingers wrapped around the spine of the book. Now I was willing to try anything.
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Maybe the problem between me and my father was that we were both the same.
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My father was very impressed when he saw "Death of a Salesman," I must say. He recognized himself to some extent.
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I love my father, and I believe in him. And he lost to Dan Quayle. I had a hard time understanding how that could happen.
