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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
Wounds
Call
Also
Anchorage
Port
Geography
Wound
Tides

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Happiness is an accident of nature, a beautiful and flawless aberration.
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Why do they not teach you that time is a finger snap and an eye blink, and that you should not allow a moment to pass you by without taking joyous, ecstatic note of it, not wasting a single moment of its swift, breakneck circuit?
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Cameras are a lifesaver for very shy people who have nowhere else to hide. Behind a lens they can disguise the fact that they have nothing to say to strangers.
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Rape is a crime against sleep and memory it's afterimage imprints itself like an irreversible negative from the camera obscura of dreams.
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A recipe is a story that ends with a good meal.
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I’ve never had anyone’s approval, so I’ve learned to live without it.
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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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Her laughter was a shiny thing, like pewter flung high in the air.
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There is no downside to winning. It feels forever fabulous.
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Craziness attacks the softest eyes and hamstrings the gentlest flanks.
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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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If smallness was fortune, then I had come across a treasure, infinitesimal and beyond value. I felt lucky. You had to decide what was estimable and precious in your life and set out to find it. The objects you valued defined you.
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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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My soul grazes like a lamb on the beauty of an indrawn tide.
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If not for sports, I do not think my father would have ever talked to me.
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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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Humanity is best described as inhumanity.
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My father wouldn't let me take typing in childhood.
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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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Saints make wonderful grandfathers and lousy husbands.
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