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Through sports a coach can offer a boy a secret way to sneak up on the mystery that is manhood.

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
Mystery
Boys
Sports
Sneak
Secret
Manhood
Way
Coach
Coaches
Offer
Offers

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Cameras are a lifesaver for very shy people who have nowhere else to hide. Behind a lens they can disguise the fact that they have nothing to say to strangers.
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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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I loved my parents... but that can never change the fact that my father's violence ruined my childhood.
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I've never cackled with laughter at a single line I've ever written. None of it has given me pleasure.
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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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A story untold could be the one that kills you.
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Good coaching is good teaching and nothing else.
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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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I learned that if I could read, I could cook. I surprised myself I like it.
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Carolina beach music, Dupree said, coming up on the porch. The holiest sound on earth.
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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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These are the quicksilver moments of my childhood I cannot remember entirely. Irresistible and emblematic, I can recall them only in fragments and shivers of the heart.
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Humanity is best described as inhumanity.
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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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Laughter is the only strategy that has ever worked at all for me when my world is falling apart.
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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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My soul grazes like a lamb on the beauty of an indrawn tide.
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Happiness is an accident of nature, a beautiful and flawless aberration.
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I still write in long hand. I type like a chimpanzee.
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