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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.
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
Pretty
Came
Water
Girl
Melted
Hands
Tasting
Like
Snow
Pure
Cold
More quotes by Pat Conroy
I wrote to explain my own life to myself, stories are the vessels I use to interpret the world to myself.
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Families without songs are unhappy families.
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If not for sports, I do not think my father would have ever talked to me.
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Few things linger longer or become more indwelling than that feeling of both completion and emptiness when a great book ends. That the book accompanies the reader forever from that day forward is part of literature's profligate generosity.
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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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Craziness attacks the softest eyes and hamstrings the gentlest flanks.
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The pursuit of greatness means that laziness has no place in your life.
Pat Conroy
I was born into the century in which novels lost their stories, poems their rhymes, paintings their form, and music its beauty, but that does not mean I have to like that trend or go along with it.
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I still write in long hand. I type like a chimpanzee.
Pat Conroy
Writing has never been that simple for me.
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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.
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I wanted to become the seeker, the aroused and passionate explorer, and it was better to go at it knowing nothing at all, always choosing the unmarked bottle, always choosing your own unproven method, armed with nothing but faith and a belief in astonishment.
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A story untold could be the one that kills you.
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There are no verdicts to childhood, only consequences, and the bright freight of memory.
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... the wing of a fly is proof enough of the existence of God for me.
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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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My wound is geography. It is also my anchorage, my port of call.
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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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I was born to be a point guard, but not a very good one.
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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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