Harold Brodkey
Harold Brodkey
Harold Brodkey, born Aaron Roy Weintraub, was an American short-story writer and novelist. He is the father of Temi Rose, born Ann Emily Brodkey...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth25 October 1930
CountryUnited States of America
collision mutual distaste
Death and I are head to head in a total collision, pure and mutual distaste.
firsts television ill
Almost the first thing I did when I became ill was to buy a truly good television set.
pain agony shock
Being ill like this combines shock - this time I will die - with a pain and agony that are unfamiliar, that wrench me out of myself.
announcements has-beens written
Nothing I have ever written has been admired as much as the announcement of my death.
mother voice mind
My protagonists are my mother's voice and the mind I had when I was thirteen.
real miracle disease
God is an immensity, while this disease, this death, which is in me, this small, tightly defined pedestrian event, is merely and perfectly real, without miracle—or instruction.
men rage homosexual
I often thought men stank of rage; it is why I preferred women, and homosexuals.
reality illumination drunk
If you like to read, sometimes it's interesting just to go and see what the reality is, of the word, of the seedy or not so seedy fiction writer, the drunk or sober poet... Sometimes you can go looking for illumination.
liars writing thinking
I distrust summaries, any kind of gliding through time, any too great a claim that one is in control of what one recounts; I think someone who claims to understand but is obviously calk, someone who claims to write with emotion recollected in tranquility, is a fool and a liar. To understand is to tremble. To recollect is to re-enter and be riven. ... I admire the authority of being on one's knees in front of the event.
loneliness past self
In our opposed forms of loneliness and self-recognition and recognition of the other, we touched each other often as we spoke; and on shore in explorations of the past, we strolled with our arms linked...
accomplishment looks merit
I look upon another's insistence on the merits of his or her life - duties, intellect, accomplishment - and see that most of it is nonsense.
sleep odds decay
I am in an adolescence in reverse, as mysterious as the first, except that this time I feel it as a decay of the odds that I might live for a while, that I can sleep it off.
way metamorphosis young
I awake with a not entirely sickened knowledge that I am merely young again and in a funny way at peace, an observer who is aware of time's chariot, aware that some metamorphosis has occurred.
struggle writing kind
Often writing is like a struggle to get back to a kind of belated, quite impure virginity.