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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
Like
Snow
Pure
Cold
Pretty
Came
Water
Girl
Melted
Hands
Tasting
More quotes by Pat Conroy
My father wouldn't let me take typing in childhood.
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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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The mind is an intricate mechanism that can be run on the fuels of both victory and defeatism.
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The only word for goodness is goodness, and it is not enough.
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I lived with the terrible knowledge that one day I would be an old man still waiting for my real life to start. Already, I pitied that old man.
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Families without songs are unhappy families.
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I never read my reviews... not even the good ones. Barbra Streisand once told me, if just one person in the audience doesn't applaud, it bothers her. I'm the same way. I'd be devastated to read that someone didn't like my work.
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Happiness is an accident of nature, a beautiful and flawless aberration.
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In family matters you can get over anything. That's one thing you'll learn as an adult. There's a lot you have to learn which is a lot worse than that. You'd never think of forgiving a friend for some of the things your parents did to you. But with friends it's different. Friends aren't the roll of the dice.
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Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends.
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The pursuit of greatness means that laziness has no place in your life.
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Saints make wonderful grandfathers and lousy husbands.
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Writing is the only way I have to explain my own life to myself.
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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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Her laughter was a shiny thing, like pewter flung high in the air.
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The world of literature has everything in it, and it refuses to leave
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I stood face to face with the moon and the ocean and the future that spread out with all its bewildering immensity before 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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Know this. I think you could be special if you only thought there was anything special about yourself.
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I still write in long hand. I type like a chimpanzee.
Pat Conroy
