Quote

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.

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
Seemed
Camouflage
Series
Mastered
History
Strategies
Wells
Placed
Well
Hidden
Mirrors
Strategy
Kept

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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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Baseball fans love numbers. They love to swirl them around their mouths like Bordeaux wine.
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Writing poetry and reading books causes brain damage.
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There is no teacher more discriminating or transforming than loss.
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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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Without music, life is a journey through a desert.
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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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My soul grazes like a lamb on the beauty of an indrawn tide.
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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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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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Good writing is the hardest form of thinking.
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The world of literature has everything in it, and it refuses to leave
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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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We children sat transfixed before that moon our mother had called forth from the waters. When the moon had reached its deepest silver, my sister, Savannah, though only three, cried aloud to our mother, to Luke and me, to the river and the moon, Oh, Mama, do it again! And I had my earliest memory.
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I was born and raised on a Carolina sea island and I carried the sunshine of the low-country, inked in dark gold, on my back and shoulders.
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Happiness is an accident of nature, a beautiful and flawless aberration.
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Every woman I had ever met who walked through the world appraised and classified by an extraordinary physicality had also received the keys to an unbearable solitude. It was the coefficient of their beauty, the price they had to pay.
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My mother raised me to be a writer.
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... the wing of a fly is proof enough of the existence of God for me.
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