When I was a little boy I did not, of course, trouble much about my appearance.
He who does not understand a joke, he does not understand Danish.
My father, though, could run very much faster. It was impossible to compete with him on the grass. But it was astonishing how slow old people were. Some of them could not run up a hill and called it trying to climb stairs.
The Danish glee: the national version of cheerfulness.
I admired in others the strength that I lacked myself.
The war imbued my tin soldiers with quite a new interest. It was impossible to have boxes enough of them.