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The only word for goodness is goodness, and it is not enough.

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
Tides
Goodness
Word
Enough

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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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Once he had drawn first blood, his war against the property of the state lost all its moral resonance.
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Fantasy is one of the soul's brighter porcelains.
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Comely was the town by the curving river that they dismantled in a year's time. Beautiful was Colleton in her last spring as she flung azaleas like a girl throwing rice at a desperate wedding. In dazzling profusion, Colleton ripened in a gauze of sweet gardens and the town ached beneath a canopy of promissory fragrance.
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I still write in long hand. I type like a chimpanzee.
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Man wonders but God decides When to kill the Prince of Tides.
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I learned that if I could read, I could cook. I surprised myself I like it.
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There is no downside to winning. It feels forever fabulous.
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My soul grazes like a lamb on the beauty of an indrawn tide.
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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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I had come to a place where I was meant to be. I don't mean anything so prosaic as a sense of coming home. This was different, very different. It was like arriving at a place much safer than home.
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I realized early that unless you're willing to kill the innocent, you can't win.
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I can't pass a bookstore without slipping inside, looking for the next book that will burn my hand when I touch its jacket, or hand me over a promissory note of such immense power that it contains the formula that will change everything about me.
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I was born to be a point guard, but not a very good one.
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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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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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... silence (can) be the most eloquent form of lying.
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Happiness is an accident of nature, a beautiful and flawless aberration.
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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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Through sports a coach can offer a boy a secret way to sneak up on the mystery that is manhood.
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