Anatole Broyard

 
Profession : Critic ,Editor ,Writer
Nationality : American
Birth : 16th July, 1920
Death : 11th October, 1990
About : Anatole Paul Broyard was born in New Orleans. He was an American writer, literary critic and editor 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 and Kafka Was the Rage: A Greenwich Village Memoir, were published after his death. After his death, Broyard became the center of controversy and discussions related to how he had chosen to live as an adult in New York. A Louisiana Creole of mixed race, he was criticized by some blacks for "passing" as white as an adult and failing to acknowledge his African-American ancestry. Multiracial advocates though have cited Broyard as an example of someone forging their own racial identity long before it was acceptable in mainstream America. As the writer and editor Brent Staples wrote in 2003, "Anatole Broyard wanted to be a writer -- and not just a 'Negro writer' consigned to the back of the literary bus."

Anatole Broyard Quotes

Aphorisms are bad for novels. They stick in the reader’s teeth.
Chic is a convent for unloved women.
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I remember a table in Barchester Towers that had more character than the combined heroes of three recent novels I’ve read.
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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.
Lapped in poetry, wrapped in the picturesque, armed with logical sentences and inalienable words.
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.
Rome was a poem pressed into service as a city.
She has always ridden the passions as if they were a magnificent horse.
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Such a fatigue of adjectives, a drone of alliterations, a huffing of hyphenated words hurdling the meter like tired horses. Such a faded upholstery of tears, stars, bells, bones, flood and blood…a thud of consonants in tongue, night, dark, dust, seed, wound and wind.
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The contents of someone’s bookcase are part of his history, like an ancestral portrait.
Tags : Books Topics : Uncategorized
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
We are all tourists in history, and irony is what we win in wars.
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When friends stop being frank and useful to each other, the whole world loses some of its radiance.
When Harriet goes to bed with a man, she always takes her wet blanket with her.
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Quote Of the Day

Anger and hatred lead to fear; compassion and concern for others allow us to develop self-confidence, which breeds trust and friendship.

Dalai Lama