Quote

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.

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
Next
Immense
Bookstores
Hands
Burn
Jacket
Change
Notes
Slipping
Power
Pass
Jackets
Everything
Touch
Formula
Book
Inside
Contains
Without
Hand
Formulas
Promissory
Looking
Note
Bookstore

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Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends.
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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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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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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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Carolina beach music, Dupree said, coming up on the porch. The holiest sound on earth.
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Evil would always come to me disguised in systems and dignified by law.
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... the wing of a fly is proof enough of the existence of God for me.
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Humanity is best described as inhumanity.
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The only way I could endure being a coward was if I was the only one who knew it.
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The only word for goodness is goodness, and it is not enough.
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Her laughter was a shiny thing, like pewter flung high in the air.
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He was one of those rare men who are capable of being fully in love only once in their lives.
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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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Man wonders but God decides When to kill the Prince of Tides.
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A recipe is a story that ends with a good meal.
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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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Good writing is the hardest form of thinking.
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A story untold could be the one that kills you.
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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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There is no teacher more discriminating or transforming than loss.
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