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
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.
new-york party long
In New York one lives in the moment rather more than Socrates advised, so that at a party or alone in your room it will always be difficult to guess at the long term worth of anything.
sweet sorry home
I feel sorry for the man who marries you... because everyone thinks you're sweet and you're not.
new-york thinking anchors
Me, my literary reputation is mostly abroad, but I am anchored here in New York. I can't think of any other place I'd rather die than here.
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.