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Rape is a crime against sleep and memory it's afterimage imprints itself like an irreversible negative from the camera obscura of dreams.
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
Dreams
Imprints
Memories
Rape
Sleep
Irreversible
Dream
Camera
Like
Cameras
Memory
Negative
Crime
More quotes by Pat Conroy
Walking the streets of Charleston in the late afternoons of August was like walking through gauze or inhaling damaged silk.
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Fantasy is one of the soul's brighter porcelains.
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A recipe is a story that ends with a good meal.
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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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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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My wound is geography. It is also my anchorage, my port of call.
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I’ve never had anyone’s approval, so I’ve learned to live without it.
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She was one of those Southerners who knew from an early age that the South could never be more for them than a fragrant prison, administered by a collective of loving but treacherous relatives.
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The world of literature has everything in it, and it refuses to leave
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Happiness is an accident of nature, a beautiful and flawless aberration.
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If not for sports, I do not think my father would have ever talked to me.
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There is no teacher more discriminating or transforming than loss.
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Without music, life is a journey through a desert.
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I realized early that unless you're willing to kill the innocent, you can't win.
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If smallness was fortune, then I had come across a treasure, infinitesimal and beyond value. I felt lucky. You had to decide what was estimable and precious in your life and set out to find it. The objects you valued defined you.
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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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Good writing is the hardest form of thinking.
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The only word for goodness is goodness, and it is not enough.
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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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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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