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Carolina beach music, Dupree said, coming up on the porch. The holiest sound on earth.

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
Holiest
Porch
Carolina
Beach
Coming
Sound
Earth
Music

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American men are allotted just as many tears as American women. But because we are forbidden to shed them, we die long before women do, with our hearts exploding or our blood pressure rising or our livers eaten away by alcohol because that lake of grief inside us has no outlet. We, men, die because our faces were not watered enough.
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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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Love had always issued out of the places that hurt the most.
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Saints make wonderful grandfathers and lousy husbands.
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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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Baseball fans love numbers. They love to swirl them around their mouths like Bordeaux wine.
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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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There are no verdicts to childhood, only consequences, and the bright freight of memory.
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Fantasy is one of the soul's brighter porcelains.
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My wound is geography. It is also my anchorage, my port of call.
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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 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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Writing poetry and reading books causes brain damage.
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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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Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends.
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I still write in long hand. I type like a chimpanzee.
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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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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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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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