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My father wouldn't let me take typing in childhood.

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
Typing
Childhood
Wouldn
Father
Take

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When men talk about the agony of being men, they can never quite get away from the recurrent theme of self-pity. And when women talk about being women, they can never quite get away from the recurrent theme of blaming men.
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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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Through sports a coach can offer a boy a secret way to sneak up on the mystery that is manhood.
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Fantasy is one of the soul's brighter porcelains.
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Carolina beach music, Dupree said, coming up on the porch. The holiest sound on earth.
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My mother thought of my father as half barbarian and half blunt instrument, and she isolated him from his children.
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Families without songs are unhappy families.
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Evil would always come to me disguised in systems and dignified by law.
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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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The mind is an intricate mechanism that can be run on the fuels of both victory and defeatism.
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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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Walking the streets of Charleston in the late afternoons of August was like walking through gauze or inhaling damaged silk.
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There are no verdicts to childhood, only consequences, and the bright freight of memory.
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Writing is the only way I have to explain my own life to myself.
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I do not have any other way of saying it. I think it happens but once and only to the very young when it feels like your skin could ignite at the mere touch of another person. You get to love like that but once.
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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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From the very beginning, I wrote to explain my own life to myself, and I invited any readers who chose to make the journey with me to join me on the high wire.
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Even today, I hunt for the fabulous books that will change me utterly. I find myself happiest in the middle of a book which I forget that I am reading, but am instead immersed in a made-up life lived at the highest pitch.
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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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She thought she brought a gift of compassion for those exhausted souls who had not received a chest portion from the people who raised them. If compassion and therapy did not work, she could always send her patients to the local pharmacy for drugs.
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