Bel Kaufman Quotes
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I am writing this during my lunch period, because I need to reach towards the outside world of sanity, because I am overwhelmed by the sheer weight of the clerical work still to be done, and because at this hour of the morning normal ladies are still sleeping.
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How can you wish on a turkey wishbone with a man who is capable of correcting a love letter?
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In one story, he describes a man who is blind in one eye, myopic in the other, too poor to buy eyeglasses, who wears only the frames, with no lenses. When asked why he replies: “It’s better than nothing.
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One of my students had written wistfully of a dream-school that would have "windows with trees in them.
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Many of us, her mind repeated, walking with vague symptoms, breathing fear. So many of us who, through love, have a stake in life.
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Mythology is studied in the school system because most of us come from it.
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She hoped the examination would not take too long because she had to take Patty to her art class, shop for tonight’s dinner, and fix the hem of Patty’s new dress for her sixth birthday party next week.
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Reading between the lines, I got the impression of dull domesticity that had settled upon them like fine dust.
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After the prescribed length of time and number of meals consumed and digested in unison, they felt they had sufficient community of interests to marry.
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The heart has its reasons; it's the mind that's suspect.
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A teacher is frequently the only adult in the pupil's environment who treats him with respect.
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He glanced at me as if he knew more than he cared to say and realized the absurdity of communication, acknowledged the introduction with a courtly bow, and continued his search for misprints.
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She touched his sleeve, drawing her hand away at once, as if burned by the contact, but with practiced subtlety.
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I so enjoy being old because for the first time I don't have to do anything-work, teach, study. I feel very good about myself-and at my age I can say no to anything now if I don't want to do it. What a liberating word.
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I don’t lose time playing verbal games, trying to remember what I forgot. “I don’t remember your name,” says one octogenarian to another. “Tell me what it is.” The second one pauses: “How soon do you have to know?” he asks.
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Love is the ultimate giving, an expression of one's best self.
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Styeddy, styeddy. Boyfrriend. Boyfrriends out eleven o’clock, styeddies out twelve,” she pronounced sternly. Then, as if relieved at an unpleasant duty so neatly discharged, she added: “Rrule.” Beguiled by the momentary vision of a procession of boyfriends tiptoeing down the stairs, shoes in hand, while steadies, single-file, marched up from eleven to twelve, I said primly: “I’m interested only in my work.”
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The building itself is hostile: cracked plaster, broken windows, splintered doors and carved up desks, gloomy corridors, metal stairways, dingy cafeteria (they can eat sitting down only in 20 minute shifts) and an auditorium which has no windows. It does have murals, however, depicting mute, muscular harvesters, faded and immobilized under a mustard sun. That's where we had assembly this morning.
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Best marks go to cheaters and memorizers. Marks depend on memorizing and not on real knowledge. When you cram into your head for a test you may get a high mark but forget it the next day. That's not an education. I suggest just Good and Bad at the end of the term on report cards. Or maybe nothing.
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The Bible says, “A soft answer turneth away wrath.”
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To quote a noted Jewish humorist, Sholom Aleichem: “First comes health. You can always hang yourself later."
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I saw a Vacancy sign in a brownstone on Lexington Avenue, rang the bell, the door swung open, and there she was: a squat, middle-aged woman with a purple velvet bow perched on her raven-dyed hair and a look of delighted astonishment on her face. She was encased in a dress of iridescent taffeta; on her feet, over her stockings, she wore tan socks and over these—high heeled patent leather pumps.
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Please admit bearer to class—Detained by me for going Up the Down staircase and subsequent insolence.
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There is a need for closeness, yet we can't get too close. The teacher-pupil relationship is a kind of tightrope to be walked. I know how carefully I must choose a word, a gesture. I understand the delicate balance between friendliness and familiarity, dignity and aloofness. I am especially aware of this in trying to reclaim Ferone. I don't know why it's so important to me. Perhaps because he, too, is a rebel. Perhaps because he's been so damaged. He's too bright and too troubled to be lost in the shuffle.