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The only way I could endure being a coward was if I was the only one who knew it.

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
Way
Coward
Endure
Pride
Knew

More quotes by Pat Conroy

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If not for sports, I do not think my father would have ever talked to me.
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The English language on her tongue became a smoke-screen, without her eyes changing expression in the least.
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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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There is no downside to winning. It feels forever fabulous.
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Writing is the only way I have to explain my own life to myself.
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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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Humanity is best described as inhumanity.
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When I was 5 years old, my mother read me 'Gone With The Wind' at night, before I went to bed. I remember her reading almost all year.
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The great teachers fill you up with hope and shower you with a thousand reasons to embrace all aspects of life. I wanted to follow Mr. Monte around for the rest of my life, learning everything he wished to share of impart, but I didn't know how to ask.
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I realized early that unless you're willing to kill the innocent, you can't win.
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Red Hook Road made me happy, and happy to be alive. It took me out of my home on the coast of South Carolina, placed me in the town along Red hook Road, and changed me the way good books always do.
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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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Craziness attacks the softest eyes and hamstrings the gentlest flanks.
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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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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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Once he had drawn first blood, his war against the property of the state lost all its moral resonance.
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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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My wound is geography. It is also my anchorage, my port of call.
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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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