Harold Brodkey



Harold Brodkey was born into a Mid-Western Jewish family, moving to New York and coming to prominence as a writer in the early 1950s. During the following four decades, he established himself as a modern master of short fiction. He contracted the AIDS virus and died in 1996. Some of his books were published posthumously.

Average rating: 4.01 · 3,988 ratings · 364 reviews · 42 distinct worksSimilar authors
Stories in an Almost Classi...

3.94 avg rating — 449 ratings — published 1988 — 15 editions
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First Love and Other Sorrow...

3.96 avg rating — 457 ratings — published 1958 — 16 editions
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This Wild Darkness: The Sto...

3.81 avg rating — 157 ratings — published 1996 — 15 editions
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Profane Friendship

3.51 avg rating — 57 ratings — published 1994 — 11 editions
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The Runaway Soul

3.68 avg rating — 50 ratings — published 1991 — 18 editions
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My Venice

3.61 avg rating — 38 ratings — published 1997 — 3 editions
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Lo stato di grazia e altri ...

3.67 avg rating — 45 ratings — published 1954 — 3 editions
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The World Is the Home of Lo...

3.65 avg rating — 37 ratings — published 1997 — 6 editions
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Sea Battles on Dry Land: Es...

3.84 avg rating — 19 ratings — published 1999 — 3 editions
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The Abundant Dreamer

3.73 avg rating — 11 ratings — published 1989 — 3 editions
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“I figured I had kept her from being too depressed after fucking--it's hard for a girl with any force in her and any brains to accept the whole thing of fucking, of being fucked without trying to turn it on its end, so that she does some fucking, or some fucking up; I mean, the mere power of arousing the man so he wants to fuck isn't enough; she wants him to be willing to die in order to fuck. There's a kind of strain or intensity women are bred for, as beasts, for childbearing when childbearing might kill them, and child rearing when the child might die at any moment: it's in women to live under that danger, with that risk, that close to tragedy, with that constant taut or casual courage. They need death and nobility near. To be fucked when there's no drama inherent in it, when you're not going to rise to a level of nobility and courage forever denied the male, is to be cut off from what is inherently female, bestially speaking.”
Harold Brodkey

“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.”
Harold Brodkey, First Love and Other Sorrows: Stories

“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...”
Harold Brodkey, Profane Friendship

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