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Man wonders but God decides When to kill the Prince of Tides.
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
Decides
Wonders
Tides
Prince
Kill
Wonder
Men
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Carolina beach music, Dupree said, coming up on the porch. The holiest sound on earth.
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Once he had drawn first blood, his war against the property of the state lost all its moral resonance.
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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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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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Walking the streets of Charleston in the late afternoons of August was like walking through gauze or inhaling damaged silk.
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Writing is the only way I have to explain my own life to myself.
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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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Except for memory, time would have no meaning at all.
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Laughter is the only strategy that has ever worked at all for me when my world is falling apart.
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I meet kids now who become novelists, poets, write for the theater and movies, who were simply inspired by what they saw during the Spoleto Festival.
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These are the quicksilver moments of my childhood I cannot remember entirely. Irresistible and emblematic, I can recall them only in fragments and shivers of the heart.
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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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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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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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I learned that if I could read, I could cook. I surprised myself I like it.
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I’ve never had anyone’s approval, so I’ve learned to live without it.
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Baseball fans love numbers. They love to swirl them around their mouths like Bordeaux wine.
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My mother raised me to be a writer.
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