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
memories prayer leaving
Memory, so complete and clear or so evasive, has to be ended, has to be put aside, as if one were leaving a chapel and bringing the prayer to an end in one's head.
opinion stills millions
I have thousands of opinions still - but that is down from millions - and, as always, I know nothing.
long-ago people stories
True stories, autobiographical stories, like some novels, begin long ago, before the acts in the account, before the birth of some of the people in the tale.
athlete exercise healthy
Athletes have studied how to leap and how to survive the leap some of the time and return to the ground. They don't always do it well. But they are our philosophers of actual moments and the body and soul in them, and of our maneuvers in our emergencies and longings.
kicking-it alive radio
Public radio is alive and kicking, it always has been
new-york crazy done
I was always crazy about New York, dependent on it, scared of it - well, it is dangerous - but beyond that there was the pressure of being young and of not yet having done work you really liked, trademark work, breakthrough work
light church earth
It is death that goes down to the center of the earth, the great burial church the earth is, and then to the curved ends of the universe, as light is said to do
writing games knows
You really can’t write unless you read. You have to know what the game is all about.
memories ifs hard
I have the sense that if I push too hard or too far into memory I’ll come apart.
people my-thoughts
I am startled when people are themselves and are not my thoughts of them.
giving-up past thinking
I can't change the past, and I don't think I would. I don't expect to be understood. I like what I've written, the stories and two novels. If I had to give up what I've written in order to be clear of this disease, I wouldn't do it.
perfect contentment entering
I am sensible of the velocity of the moments, and entering that part of my head alert to the motion of the world I am aware that life was never perfect, never absolute. This bestows contentment, even a fearlessness.
spring butterfly wind
the cold winds of insecurity... hadn't shredded the dreamy chrysalis of his childhood. He was still immersed in the dim, wet wonder of the folded wings that might open if someone loved him; he still hoped, probably, in a butterfly's unthinking way, for spring and warmth. How the wings ache, folded so, waiting; that is, they ache until they atrophy.