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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
Thing
Like
Pewter
Flung
Shiny
Laughter
Air
Laughing
High

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The mind is an intricate mechanism that can be run on the fuels of both victory and defeatism.
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I can't pass a bookstore without slipping inside, looking for the next book that will burn my hand when I touch its jacket, or hand me over a promissory note of such immense power that it contains the formula that will change everything about me.
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Know this. I think you could be special if you only thought there was anything special about yourself.
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American men are allotted just as many tears as American women. But because we are forbidden to shed them, we die long before women do, with our hearts exploding or our blood pressure rising or our livers eaten away by alcohol because that lake of grief inside us has no outlet. We, men, die because our faces were not watered enough.
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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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Walking the streets of Charleston in the late afternoons of August was like walking through gauze or inhaling damaged silk.
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The only way I could endure being a coward was if I was the only one who knew it.
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Craziness attacks the softest eyes and hamstrings the gentlest flanks.
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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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One of the greatest gifts you can get as a writer is to be born into an unhappy family.
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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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Fantasy is one of the soul's brighter porcelains.
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I don’t know why it is that I have always been happier thinking of somewhere I have been or wanted to go, than where I am at the time. I find it difficult to be happy in the present.
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Happiness is an accident of nature, a beautiful and flawless aberration.
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The pursuit of greatness means that laziness has no place in your life.
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My soul grazes like a lamb on the beauty of an indrawn tide.
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Saints make wonderful grandfathers and lousy husbands.
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Cameras are a lifesaver for very shy people who have nowhere else to hide. Behind a lens they can disguise the fact that they have nothing to say to strangers.
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Except for memory, time would have no meaning at all.
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Writing is the only way I have to explain my own life to myself.
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