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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
Father
Take
Typing
Childhood
Wouldn

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I still write in long hand. I type like a chimpanzee.
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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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My wound is geography. It is also my anchorage, my port of call.
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But no one walks out of his family without reprisals: a family is too disciplined an army to offer compassion to its deserters.
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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 was born and raised on a Carolina sea island and I carried the sunshine of the low-country, inked in dark gold, on my back and shoulders.
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Humanity is best described as inhumanity.
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Families without songs are unhappy families.
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I’ve never had anyone’s approval, so I’ve learned to live without it.
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I don’t know why it is that I have always been happier thinking of somewhere I have been or wanted to go, than where I am at the time. I find it difficult to be happy in the present.
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Writing poetry and reading books causes brain damage.
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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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Man wonders but God decides When to kill the Prince of Tides.
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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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Baseball fans love numbers. They love to swirl them around their mouths like Bordeaux wine.
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I learned that if I could read, I could cook. I surprised myself I like it.
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There are no verdicts to childhood, only consequences, and the bright freight of memory.
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The safe places could only be visited they could only grant a momentary intuition of sanctuary. The moment always came when we had to return to our real life to face the wounds and grief indigenous to our homr by the river.
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