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

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My mother raised me to be a writer.
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Even today, I hunt for the fabulous books that will change me utterly. I find myself happiest in the middle of a book which I forget that I am reading, but am instead immersed in a made-up life lived at the highest pitch.
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Families without songs are unhappy families.
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Man wonders but God decides When to kill the Prince of Tides.
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You do not learn how to write novels in a writing program. You learn how by leading an interesting life. Open yourself up to all experience. Let life pour through you the way light pours through leaves.
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Writing poetry and reading books causes brain damage.
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Without music, life is a journey through a desert.
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My soul grazes like a lamb on the beauty of an indrawn tide.
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Reading is the most rewarding form of exile and the most necessary discipline for novelists who burn with the ambition to get better.
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It is an art form to hate New York City properly. So far I have always been a featherweight debunker of New York it takes too much energy and endurance to record the infinite number of ways the city offends me.
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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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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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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 still write in long hand. I type like a chimpanzee.
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Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends.
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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 water was pure and cold and came out of the Apennines tasting like snow melted in the hands of a pretty girl.
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A recipe is a story that ends with a good meal.
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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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