1



Anatole Broyard

  • American critic
  • Born July 19, 1920
  • Died October 11, 1990

Anatole Paul Broyard (July 16, 1920 – October 11, 1990) was an American writer, literary critic, and editor from New Orleans who wrote for The New York Times. In addition to his many reviews and columns, he published short stories, essays, and two books during his lifetime. His autobiographical works, Intoxicated by My Illness (1992) and Kafka Was the Rage: A Greenwich Village Memoir (1993), were published after his death. He had moved to Brooklyn, New York, with his family as a youth. Several years after his death, Broyard became the center of controversy when it was revealed that he had "passed" as white as an adult.


Lapped in poetry, wrapped in the picturesque, armed with logical sentences and inalienable words.




There was a time when we expected nothing of our children but obedience, as opposed to the present, when we expect everything of them but obedience.




When friends stop being frank and useful to each other, the whole world loses some of its radiance.




We are all tourists in history, and irony is what we win in wars.




The tension between 'yes' and 'no', between 'I can' and 'I cannot', makes us feel that, in so many instances, human life is an interminable debate with one's self.




Rome was a poem pressed into service as a city.




People have no idea what a hard job it is for two writers to be friends. Sooner or later you have to talk about each other's work.




To be misunderstood can be the writer's punishment for having disturbed the reader's peace. The greater the disturbance, the greater the possibility of misunderstanding.




The more I like a book, the more slowly I read. this spontaneous talking back to a book is one of the things that makes reading so valuable.




There is something about seeing real people on a stage that makes a bad play more intimately, more personally offensive than any other art form.




It is one of the paradoxes of American literature that our writers are forever looking back with love and nostalgia at lives they couldn't wait to leave.




The epic implications of being human end in more than this: We start our lives as if they were momentous stories, with a beginning, a middle and an appropriate end, only to find that they are mostly middles.




Aphorisms are bad for novels. They stick in the reader's teeth.



1