Quotes from Bel Kaufman

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.

To meet this expense, he sold his violin. Besides, Charlotte did not care for music.

Wrrite, wrrite, Lapochka, why you don't wrrite?" and assure me that a horse, even with four legs, stumbles. I found it difficult to explain to her what I was writing. "It's about Colley Cibber," I said. "He was an actor, playwright and poet." "Also poet?" Varya asked suspiciously. "Who he? Pushkin?

Apparently this r had to be worked for: Varya told me that as a child she couldn't pronounce it properly, and that her father would make her repeat a series of exercises about gorgeous grapes growing on Mount Ararat and three hundred thirty-three drummers drumming on three hundred thirty-three drums.

As a former student put it: "In a liberry it's hard to avoid reading." When

Shortly after my arrival, I discovered that Nancy-Anastasia and poor Walter were also living in the house, in a ground floor room, in order to save money for their divorce. "They're living together?" I asked. "Is Okay. Is Rrawshian saying: 'Not everybody who snore is sleeping.

As for Walter—he was a man constantly beset by tiny pinpricks of fate.

Why you don't cut whiskers? Is Rrawshian saying: 'The beard is honor, but whiskers even a cat has!' " "Oh, mother," Nancy-Anastasia would shrug helplessly.

She wore no make-up, and her small, tense face looked chronically embarrassed, as if it got attached by mistake to the wrong person.

A man couldn't jump higher than himself, she pointed out to me. And he couldn't help it if he was a "zoodnik"; one so annoying, he made you itch.

A life to live is not a field to cross; yet, somehow, in her chaotic way, Varya was able to keep the house going.

and off she'd go—in search of a bargain: a lamp disguised as a nude figure, a rhinestone tiara, or a hand-painted parasol, for the "rainy season.

Her disappointment was minor compared to her astonishment. "Again I didn't win? But last year I didn't win also!

Love is the ultimate giving, an expression of one's best self.

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. Frank Allen

How can you wish on a turkey wishbone with a man who is capable of correcting a love letter?

What makes you think you're so special? Just because you're a teacher? What he was really saying was: You are so special. You are my teacher. Then teach me, help me, Hey, Teach, I'm lost—which way do I go? I'm tired of going up the down staircase.

To the outside world, of course, this job is a cinch: 9 to 3, five days a week, two months' summer vacation with pay, all legal holidays, prestige and respect. My mother, for example, has the pleasant notion that my day consists of nodding graciously to the rustle of starched curtsies and a chorus of respectful voices bidding me good morning.

Dear Bea— I've been wading through a pile of Due before 3 mimeos—but now at last I know what to do with them: into the wastebasket! I'm also hep to the jargon. I know that illustrative material means magazine covers, enriched curriculum means teaching who and whom, and that All evaluation of students should be predicated upon initial goals and grade level expectations means if a kid shows up, pass him. Right?

Tm not a teach. I'm a teacher. And I have a name. How would you like it if I called you Hey, pupe!? I'd like it fine. Why? It shows you're with it.

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.

I have this colored friend Betty well, I never thought about it one way or the other until one day I went over her house for the first time and her father opened the door and I was surprized to see he was colored. Because, to me I was so used to her she always looked normal. Lazy Mary

Without love, the art of love is mere acrobatics. Without love, the art of giving is mere etiquette.

And that's it; that's why I want to teach; that's the one and only compensation: to make a permanent difference in the life of a child.