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The English language on her tongue became a smoke-screen, without her eyes changing expression in the least.

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
English
Became
Expression
Least
Screen
Eyes
Screens
Eye
Smoke
Language
Tongue
Without
Changing

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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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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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Fantasy is one of the soul's brighter porcelains.
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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 soul grazes like a lamb on the beauty of an indrawn tide.
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I do not have any other way of saying it. I think it happens but once and only to the very young when it feels like your skin could ignite at the mere touch of another person. You get to love like that but once.
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My father wouldn't let me take typing in childhood.
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The only word for goodness is goodness, and it is not enough.
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When I was 5 years old, my mother read me 'Gone With The Wind' at night, before I went to bed. I remember her reading almost all year.
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Humanity is best described as inhumanity.
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Good coaching is good teaching and nothing else.
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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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Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends.
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Happiness is an accident of nature, a beautiful and flawless aberration.
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There are no verdicts to childhood, only consequences, and the bright freight of memory.
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There is no teacher more discriminating or transforming than loss.
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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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Without music, life is a journey through a desert.
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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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Every woman I had ever met who walked through the world appraised and classified by an extraordinary physicality had also received the keys to an unbearable solitude. It was the coefficient of their beauty, the price they had to pay.
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