Quotes from Bel Kaufman

The long procession of men flickered before her like faces on cards quickly riffled—blurred, two-dimensional. Only their desire for her mattered.

Now, long before it came to the final reckoning, to payment of promise implied, she began to set the stage for the great renunciation. "Let's not spoil it," she would say, caressing the man's lapels with long silken fingers. "Let's not spoil what we have . . .

She luxuriated in these disembodied telephone conversations. "Darling, I can almost see you, almost touch you now." It was intimate yet distant; thrilling yet safe.

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." As

Like a child, too, he was warm, unaffected, and selfish. He had the combination, irresistible to women, of ruthlessness and tenderness.

Almost through force of habit, she found her lips saying the words she had so often said before: "Let's not spoil it . . . You will write to me, my dear, my dear . . ." His face was impassive. "I never write," he said.

Dear Bea—Can't make it today—sorry. Parent arriving lunch per. to ask why son got 35% on Midterm. Must answer him. How? Sylvia Dear Syl—Don't try. There's no communication; no one really listens. Every man is an island. Give him a container of coffee instead. Bea

ENGLISH DEPARTMENT MEETING AT 3 PM IN SCIENCE LAB 409 ON: THE TOTAL EXPERIENCE OF THE PUPIL: SHOULD MACBETH BE TAUGHT IN THE 6th TERM INSTEAD OF THE 5th?

had set out to tell you exactly what happened. But since I am the one writing this, how do I know what in my telling I am selecting, omitting, emphasizing; what unconscious editing I am doing?

She used to think of it vaguely as "We don't get along," but it wasn't even that. There were no clashes or quarrels between them, no question of infidelity. He certainly wasn't the type for an affair, and at forty-eight, her hair graying and her figure gone, she had resigned herself to weary middle age. It was just that together, bleakly confronted with each other, they experienced a vast and hopeless boredom.

Their evenings were interminable; their Sundays were like their evenings.

A marriage, she thought, had to have a reason for being.

Each country has its own manner of telephoning. The Russians, at least, are honest. They say, "It is Ivan Ivanovich who is bothering you." The

That night they stayed up until eleven-thirty, an unusually late hour for them, going over some of the practical aspects of the divorce. When they discovered they were hungry, they continued in the kitchen, over an unaccustomed snack.

They lingered over their coffee discussing alimony.

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.

there was only this one life to live; the unpardonable sin was to waste it.

She tucked a vial of perfume into her purse, to apply when she was outside the apartment

I'm Jessica Proot," I said, self-consciously releasing her hand. "Dzhesica?" she savored the awkward name doubtfully. "I call you Lapochka, for small." "What does it mean?" I asked. "Means: hand of cat." "Of cat?

What are those?" I asked, pointing up. "Those are ceiling," Varya said. "And here—sink. See—only turn so, and ffft! water!

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.

That was what marriage was: the ultimate knowledge of each other, with no need to preen or to pretend. Even its irritations came from closeness.

Smart," Varya said. "Lyubov ne kartoshka; ne vikinesh v okoshko. Means: love is not potato; can not throw out of window. Means: with love you stawck. Look on Nancy-Anastasia. My daughter. Beautiful? Yes. Happy? No. She and hawsband wait only divorce.

Then, aware once more of her obligation, she asked politely: "You only wrriter, or your work also?" "I hope to teach English one day.