These are Anatole Broyard's words and his final wish.

I have never read a book about death that was so uplifting. There is a complete lack of morbidity, self pity, or self indulgence in this writing. I would strongly recommend it for anyone with a life threatening illness. The author's courage in the face of serious illness is daunting. He commits to living the last of his life with even more awareness...a thought that each of us, regardless of health, could employ.

To my doctor . . . and the doctors to whom I will bring my children; who may treat my loved ones in their last illness . . . please read this book. If you don't want to commit to the whole book read the title essay. And then read "The Patient Examines the Doctor." Your response to these essays will be a kind of test I am giving you - an interview technique, as it were, to find out if you are the one I want to be my "familiar in a foreign country."

I have AIDS, and during the past 10 years I've found that there are really only two ways to approach serious illness: You fight it, or you give in to it. There are times for both. When I want to fight, I re-read Emmanuel Dreuihle's brilliant but out-of-print book "Mortal Embrace," which relentlessly uses the metaphors of war to describe the battle against the enemy unseen. How it energizes me for the battles ahead! But when I am forced to give in, I read "Intoxicated By My Illness" by Anatole Broyard, which offers me a whole new perspective on how to cope with serious illness: Enjoy it! Well, perhaps "enjoy" is to strong a word to describe what Broyard tries to communicate. He calls illness a journey, and he delights in the fact that it brought him back into intimate contact with his otherwise taken-for-granted body. He is fascinated -- even as he is pained -- by what is going on inside of him. He uses the changes in his body to illuminate and strengthen the best parts of his soul. He proves the adage that suffering ennobles, without being self-pitying. He exults in the journey -- he "enjoys" it! -- and that was an entirely new way (for me) to look at illness. He is a kind and gentle and wise writer, and his loss from prostate cancer was a loss to us all ... except for the wisdom he shares in this little book.

A formally unknown author to me until coming insistingly recomended by my girlfirend,Anatole very successfully retold his life experiences in post-WWII "avant-garde" Greenwich Village so that, while living in both a different generation and society, I could relate directly to his observations and reactions. That alone is the power of this memoir. Anatole through his experiences covers modern art, the music scene, and especially attitudes on sex. As with most memoirs, there is no plot; however, there is a great deal of character growth -- and if the reader takes a moment to reflect, to digest Anatole's delicate observations, he finds that when the final cover closes, he too has grown with the work. The memoir unfortunately goes unfinished due to Anatole's untimely death, but does not leave the reader unsastified.

In 1947, Anatole Broyard was a 25 year old veteran who chose to live in Greenwich Village rather than return to his parents home in Brooklyn after the war. His family was New Orleans French and he was raised a Catholic. The Village at that time represented freedom and new ways of thinking. It was a world of artists and writers. A world of intellectual and sexual freedom. A world where the latest in psychological theory was being taught at the New School by leaders in the field. There was peace and prosperity and a bright new world for the young.

Especially since it was written in 1989, when Broyard was a writer with ripened talent, it is especially interesting. Broyard looks back at himself and the world as it existed then with a mature perspective and a sense of humor that kept me giggling as I turned the pages. His is not the voice of a disaffected beat generation; it is the voice of a wide-eyed young man coming of age at a time when anything seemed possible. He writes about abstract art, jazz, going to dance clubs in Spanish Harlem, meeting H.W. Auden and a funny incident with the wife of Dylan Thomas. There's a lot about sex and his various girlfriends. And apartments with bathtubs in the kitchen and a toilet in the hall. It is a history of New York as I've never quite seen it before.

At 147 pages, this book seems much too short and I understand from the postscript that he became ill before he had a change to finish it. Too bad. Because I thoroughly enjoyed it. And am so glad that his wife decided to publish it now. I love the writing. It's simple prose with lots of good thinking behind it. A pure delight to read.

When I started the book I was delighted early on that his female roommate, who goes everywhere pantiless, has already run into W. H. Auden and sent the two of them crashing to the floor of a bookstore. Oh yeah, and what's this guy smokin' on the cover?

This is an autobiography that delves into the art and literary scene of Greenwich Village during the late 40's, post WWII era. I was surprised to find that the author actually passed away before he finished writing this memoir. I can't imagine where he would have gone w/ it, but I'm sure we've missed out.

His writing is very circumspect, and the fact that it's not actually a 'finished' work does not matter. I enjoyed the book as I've said above. I found myself considering cubism, Auden, Anais Nin, the Village, studying art in college, sex from the perspective of a man of the times. Anatole (cool name) is a sensitive man, honest about the shortcomings of his era.

Plus I loved his crazy girlfriend. I appreciated his candor. What else can I say? When he says that the sex was hot, you'd have to believe him. Cool book.