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My wound is geography. It is also my anchorage, my port of call.

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
Anchorage
Port
Geography
Wound
Tides
Wounds
Call
Also

More quotes by Pat Conroy

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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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Looking around, I thought the human species was in fine shape and tried to think of something more beautiful than women and couldn't come up with a thing. The propagation of the species was a dance of total joy.
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But no one walks out of his family without reprisals: a family is too disciplined an army to offer compassion to its deserters.
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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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If not for sports, I do not think my father would have ever talked to 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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Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends.
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... silence (can) be the most eloquent form of lying.
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Fantasy is one of the soul's brighter porcelains.
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It's impossible to explain to a Yankee what `tacky' is. They simply have no word for it up north, but my God, do they ever need one.
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I’ve never had anyone’s approval, so I’ve learned to live without it.
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We wait for the tortoises to come. We wait for that lady who walks them. That’s how art works. It’s never a jackrabbit, or a racehorse. It’s the tortoises that hold all the secrets. We’ve got to be patient enough to wait for them.
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When men talk about the agony of being men, they can never quite get away from the recurrent theme of self-pity. And when women talk about being women, they can never quite get away from the recurrent theme of blaming men.
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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.
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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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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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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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Walking the streets of Charleston in the late afternoons of August was like walking through gauze or inhaling damaged silk.
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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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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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