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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.

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
Happy
Difficult
Find
Wanted
Always
Time
Happier
Thinking
Somewhere
Present

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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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Rape is a crime against sleep and memory it's afterimage imprints itself like an irreversible negative from the camera obscura of dreams.
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We old athletes carry the disfigurements and markings of contests remembered only by us and no one else. Nothing is more lost than a forgotten game.
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The children of warriors in our country learn the grace and caution that come from a permanent sense of estrangement.
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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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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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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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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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Without music, life is a journey through a desert.
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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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I was born and raised on a Carolina sea island and I carried the sunshine of the low-country, inked in dark gold, on my back and shoulders.
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Happiness is an accident of nature, a beautiful and flawless aberration.
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Writing is the only way I have to explain my own life to myself.
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My soul grazes like a lamb on the beauty of an indrawn tide.
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Evil would always come to me disguised in systems and dignified by law.
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Her laughter was a shiny thing, like pewter flung high in the air.
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I’ve never had anyone’s approval, so I’ve learned to live without it.
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The English language on her tongue became a smoke-screen, without her eyes changing expression in the least.
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Saints make wonderful grandfathers and lousy husbands.
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The only word for goodness is goodness, and it is not enough.
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