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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
Like
Pewter
Flung
Shiny
Laughter
Air
Laughing
High
Thing

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Craziness attacks the softest eyes and hamstrings the gentlest flanks.
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She had so mastered the strategies of camouflage that her own history had seemed a series of well-placed mirrors that kept her hidden from herself.
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The world of literature has everything in it, and it refuses to leave
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Comely was the town by the curving river that they dismantled in a year's time. Beautiful was Colleton in her last spring as she flung azaleas like a girl throwing rice at a desperate wedding. In dazzling profusion, Colleton ripened in a gauze of sweet gardens and the town ached beneath a canopy of promissory fragrance.
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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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Happiness is an accident of nature, a beautiful and flawless aberration.
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Man wonders but God decides When to kill the Prince of Tides.
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I've never cackled with laughter at a single line I've ever written. None of it has given me pleasure.
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She thought she brought a gift of compassion for those exhausted souls who had not received a chest portion from the people who raised them. If compassion and therapy did not work, she could always send her patients to the local pharmacy for drugs.
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If not for sports, I do not think my father would have ever talked to me.
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But no one walks out of his family without reprisals: a family is too disciplined an army to offer compassion to its deserters.
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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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... the wing of a fly is proof enough of the existence of God for me.
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Good writing is the hardest form of thinking.
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It's impossible to explain to a Yankee what `tacky' is. They simply have no word for it up north, but my God, do they ever need one.
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Without music, life is a journey through a desert.
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Good writing ... involves the agony of turning profoundly difficult thoughts into lucid form, then forcing them into the tight-fitting uniform of language, making them visible and clear.
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My mother thought of my father as half barbarian and half blunt instrument, and she isolated him from his children.
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My mother raised me to be a writer.
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I still write in long hand. I type like a chimpanzee.
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