Leo Rosten Quotes

"I came to believe it not true that "the
coward dies a thousand deaths, the brave man
only one." I think it is the other way around:
It is the brave who die a thousand deaths.
For it is imagination, and not just conscience,
which doth make cowards of us all. Those
who do not know fear are not truly brave.
"

A writer writes not because he is educated but because he is driven by the need to communicate. Behind the need to communicate is the need to share. Behind the need to share is the need to be understood.

Happiness, in the ancient, noble sense, means self-fulfillment — and is given to those who use to the fullest whatever talents God … bestowed upon them.

Hope is ambiguous, but fear is precious.

Everyone, in some small sacred sanctuary of the self, is nuts. -Leo Rosten

The only reason for being a professional writer is that you just can't help it.

It was at this point, visualizing too vividly another Mr. Kaplan in the class, that anxious little lines had crept around Mr. Parkhill´s eyes.

Everyone, in some small secret sanctuary of the self, is nuts.

An official brought the chief rabbi of a town before the Court of the Inquisition and told him, “We will leave the fate of your people to God. I’m putting two slips of paper in this box. On one is written ‘Guilty.’ On the other is written ‘Innocent.’ Draw.” Now this inquisitor was known to seek the slaughter of all the Jews, and he had written “Guilty” on both pieces of paper. The rabbi put his hand inside the box, withdrew a slip of paper — and swallowed it. “What are you doing?” cried the inquisitor. “How will the court know — ” “That’s simple,” said the rabbi. “Examine the slip that’s in the box. If it reads ‘Innocent,’ then the paper I swallowed obviously must have read ‘Guilty.’ But if the paper in the box reads ‘Guilty,’ then the one I swallowed must have read ‘Innocent.

Writing after the Holocaust had destroyed a third of the world’s Jews, Yiddish poet Kadia Molodowsky (1894–1975) addressed the “Chosen People” doctrine most poignantly: “O God of Mercy,” she wrote, “For the time being / Choose another people.

Vun ting more I should say, so de cless shouldn´t fill too bed about Jake Popper. It´s awreddy nine yiss since he pest avay!”
“And I didn´t go to de funeral!” On this strange note, Mr. Kaplan took his seat.
The class hummed, protesting against this anticlimax which left so much to the imagination.
“Why you didn´t?” cried Mr. Bloom, with a knowing nod to the Misses Mitnick and Caravello.
Mr. Kaplan´s face was a study in sufferance. “Becawss de funeral vas in de meedle of the veek,” he sighed. “An´ I said to minesalf, “Keplen, you in America, so tink like de Americans tink!´ So I tought, an´ I didn´t go. Becawss I tought of dat dip American idea, ´Business before pleasure!

SCENE: Classroom, Lower East Side, 1926. Teacher: “Who can tell us where the Romanian border is?” Student: “In the park with my aunt, and my mother doesn’t trust him!

Waiter: “Tea or coffee, gentlemen?” First customer: “I’ll have tea.” Second customer: “Me too — and be sure the glass is clean!” (WAITER EXITS, RETURNS) Waiter: “Two teas. Which one asked for the clean glass?

For twenty years Mr. Sokoloff had been eating at the same restaurant on Second Avenue. On this night, as on every other, Mr. Sokoloff ordered chicken soup. The waiter set it down and started off. Mr. Sokoloff called, “Waiter!” “Yeah?” “Please taste this soup.” The waiter said, “Hanh? Twenty years you’ve been eating the chicken soup here, no? Have you ever had a bad plate — ” “Waiter,” Sokoloff said firmly, “taste the soup.” “Sokoloff, what’s the matter with you?” “Taste the soup!” “All right, all right,” the waiter said, grimacing. “I’ll taste — where’s the spoon?” “Aha!” cried Sokoloff.

I cannot believe that the purpose of life is to be “happy.” I think the purpose of life is to be useful, to be responsible, to be honorable, to be compassionate. It is, above all, to matter: to count, to stand for something, to have made some difference that you lived at all.