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My soul grazes like a lamb on the beauty of an indrawn tide.

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
Lambs
Tide
Tides
Beauty
Soul
Like
Lamb

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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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There is no teacher more discriminating or transforming than loss.
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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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Good writing is the hardest form of thinking.
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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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I learned that if I could read, I could cook. I surprised myself I like it.
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Writing poetry and reading books causes brain damage.
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There are no verdicts to childhood, only consequences, and the bright freight of memory.
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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 father wouldn't let me take typing in childhood.
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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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Man wonders but God decides When to kill the Prince of Tides.
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Love's action. It isn't talk and it never has been.
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She was one of those Southerners who knew from an early age that the South could never be more for them than a fragrant prison, administered by a collective of loving but treacherous relatives.
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I can't pass a bookstore without slipping inside, looking for the next book that will burn my hand when I touch its jacket, or hand me over a promissory note of such immense power that it contains the formula that will change everything about me.
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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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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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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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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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