"God is an immensity, while this disease, this death, which is in me, this small, tightly defined pedestrian event, is merely and perfectly real, without miracle - or instruction"
About this Quote
Brodkey takes a wrecking bar to the kind of consolations that usually show up when the body fails. He sets "God" up as pure scale - an "immensity" you can gesture toward but never handle - then drags our attention back to the unglamorous fact of dying: "this disease, this death... this small, tightly defined pedestrian event". The insult in "pedestrian" is the point. Terminal illness is not a mythic trial or a holy visitation. It's paperwork, symptoms, timekeeping, loss. It shrinks you to the dimensions of your own nerves.
What makes the sentence work is how it denies the reader the usual narrative exits. Brodkey doesn't argue against God; he makes God irrelevant to the lived experience of disease. The repetition of "this" is a finger jab: here, here, here. Reality is not the cosmic, it's the claustrophobic. "Merely and perfectly real" is a brutal phrase because it suggests that reality doesn't need meaning to be complete. It doesn't have to teach. It doesn't have to redeem.
The final refusal - "without miracle - or instruction" - reads like an indictment of the cultural machinery around death: the well-meaning friends, the uplift industry, the memoir arc that turns suffering into a seminar. Brodkey, writing out of the AIDS-era catastrophe and his own approaching end, insists on a harder honesty. He won't let mortality be repurposed as evidence of transcendence. He gives it the dignity of accuracy instead: death as exact, bounded, and stubbornly, insultingly ordinary.
What makes the sentence work is how it denies the reader the usual narrative exits. Brodkey doesn't argue against God; he makes God irrelevant to the lived experience of disease. The repetition of "this" is a finger jab: here, here, here. Reality is not the cosmic, it's the claustrophobic. "Merely and perfectly real" is a brutal phrase because it suggests that reality doesn't need meaning to be complete. It doesn't have to teach. It doesn't have to redeem.
The final refusal - "without miracle - or instruction" - reads like an indictment of the cultural machinery around death: the well-meaning friends, the uplift industry, the memoir arc that turns suffering into a seminar. Brodkey, writing out of the AIDS-era catastrophe and his own approaching end, insists on a harder honesty. He won't let mortality be repurposed as evidence of transcendence. He gives it the dignity of accuracy instead: death as exact, bounded, and stubbornly, insultingly ordinary.
Quote Details
| Topic | God |
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