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Baseball fans love numbers. They love to swirl them around their mouths like Bordeaux wine.

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
Mouths
Wine
Baseball
Fans
Numbers
Around
Bordeaux
Love
Swirl
Like
Swirls

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If not for sports, I do not think my father would have ever talked to me.
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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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We've pretended too much in our family, Luke, and hidden far too much. I think we're all going to pay a high price for our inability to face the truth.
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The safe places could only be visited they could only grant a momentary intuition of sanctuary. The moment always came when we had to return to our real life to face the wounds and grief indigenous to our homr by the river.
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It is an art form to hate New York City properly. So far I have always been a featherweight debunker of New York it takes too much energy and endurance to record the infinite number of ways the city offends me.
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Humanity is best described as inhumanity.
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My mother raised me to be a writer.
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The only word for goodness is goodness, and it is not enough.
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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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I've never cackled with laughter at a single line I've ever written. None of it has given me pleasure.
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I realized early that unless you're willing to kill the innocent, you can't win.
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My mother thought of my father as half barbarian and half blunt instrument, and she isolated him from his children.
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A recipe is a story that ends with a good meal.
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Without music, life is a journey through a desert.
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Her laughter was a shiny thing, like pewter flung high in the air.
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We wait for the tortoises to come. We wait for that lady who walks them. That’s how art works. It’s never a jackrabbit, or a racehorse. It’s the tortoises that hold all the secrets. We’ve got to be patient enough to wait for them.
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There are no verdicts to childhood, only consequences, and the bright freight of memory.
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American men are allotted just as many tears as American women. But because we are forbidden to shed them, we die long before women do, with our hearts exploding or our blood pressure rising or our livers eaten away by alcohol because that lake of grief inside us has no outlet. We, men, die because our faces were not watered enough.
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Fantasy is one of the soul's brighter porcelains.
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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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