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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.

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
Come
Arriving
Mean
Safer
Different
Meant
Much
Coming
Like
Sense
Place
Home
Anything
Prosaic

More quotes by Pat Conroy

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Families without songs are unhappy families.
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I lived with the terrible knowledge that one day I would be an old man still waiting for my real life to start. Already, I pitied that old man.
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Know this. I think you could be special if you only thought there was anything special about yourself.
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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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Once he had drawn first blood, his war against the property of the state lost all its moral resonance.
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I loved my parents... but that can never change the fact that my father's violence ruined my childhood.
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There are no verdicts to childhood, only consequences, and the bright freight of memory.
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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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The only word for goodness is goodness, and it is not enough.
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Humanity is best described as inhumanity.
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She thought she brought a gift of compassion for those exhausted souls who had not received a chest portion from the people who raised them. If compassion and therapy did not work, she could always send her patients to the local pharmacy for drugs.
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You do not learn how to write novels in a writing program. You learn how by leading an interesting life. Open yourself up to all experience. Let life pour through you the way light pours through leaves.
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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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I’ve never had anyone’s approval, so I’ve learned to live without it.
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Craziness attacks the softest eyes and hamstrings the gentlest flanks.
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I was born into the century in which novels lost their stories, poems their rhymes, paintings their form, and music its beauty, but that does not mean I have to like that trend or go along with it.
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A story untold could be the one that kills you.
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Writing is the only way I have to explain my own life to myself.
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My wound is geography. It is also my anchorage, my port of call.
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Good writing ... involves the agony of turning profoundly difficult thoughts into lucid form, then forcing them into the tight-fitting uniform of language, making them visible and clear.
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