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Her laughter was a shiny thing, like pewter flung high in the air.

Pat Conroy

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Pat Conroy
Age: 70 †
Born: 1945
Born: October 26
Died: 2016
Died: March 4
Author
Basketball Player
Novelist
Screenwriter
Writer
Atlanta
Georgia
Patrick Conroy
Donald Patrick Conroy
Flung
Shiny
Laughter
Air
Laughing
High
Thing
Like
Pewter

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Happiness is an accident of nature, a beautiful and flawless aberration.
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The only word for goodness is goodness, and it is not enough.
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I stood face to face with the moon and the ocean and the future that spread out with all its bewildering immensity before me.
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My soul grazes like a lamb on the beauty of an indrawn tide.
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I wrote to explain my own life to myself, stories are the vessels I use to interpret the world to myself.
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The safe places could only be visited they could only grant a momentary intuition of sanctuary. The moment always came when we had to return to our real life to face the wounds and grief indigenous to our homr by the river.
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Writing is the only way I have to explain my own life to myself.
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I still write in long hand. I type like a chimpanzee.
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There is no teacher more discriminating or transforming than loss.
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The pursuit of greatness means that laziness has no place in your life.
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I was born to be a point guard, but not a very good one.
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I meet kids now who become novelists, poets, write for the theater and movies, who were simply inspired by what they saw during the Spoleto Festival.
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... silence (can) be the most eloquent form of lying.
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Families without songs are unhappy families.
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These are the quicksilver moments of my childhood I cannot remember entirely. Irresistible and emblematic, I can recall them only in fragments and shivers of the heart.
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Few things linger longer or become more indwelling than that feeling of both completion and emptiness when a great book ends. That the book accompanies the reader forever from that day forward is part of literature's profligate generosity.
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The great teachers fill you up with hope and shower you with a thousand reasons to embrace all aspects of life. I wanted to follow Mr. Monte around for the rest of my life, learning everything he wished to share of impart, but I didn't know how to ask.
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The world of literature has everything in it, and it refuses to leave
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I had come to a place where I was meant to be. I don't mean anything so prosaic as a sense of coming home. This was different, very different. It was like arriving at a place much safer than home.
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I wanted to become the seeker, the aroused and passionate explorer, and it was better to go at it knowing nothing at all, always choosing the unmarked bottle, always choosing your own unproven method, armed with nothing but faith and a belief in astonishment.
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