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We old athletes carry the disfigurements and markings of contests remembered only by us and no one else. Nothing is more lost than a forgotten game.
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
Forgotten
Basketball
Markings
Game
Disfigurement
Games
Contests
Lost
Athletes
Inspirational
Remembered
Else
Athlete
Nothing
Carry
More quotes by Pat Conroy
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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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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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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Happiness is an accident of nature, a beautiful and flawless aberration.
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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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A recipe is a story that ends with a good meal.
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Like everything else, love's not worth much without some action to back it up.
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I learned that if I could read, I could cook. I surprised myself I like it.
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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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The mind is an intricate mechanism that can be run on the fuels of both victory and defeatism.
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Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends.
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Writing is the only way I have to explain my own life to myself.
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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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Craziness attacks the softest eyes and hamstrings the gentlest flanks.
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... the wing of a fly is proof enough of the existence of God for me.
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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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Fantasy is one of the soul's brighter porcelains.
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Evil would always come to me disguised in systems and dignified by law.
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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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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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