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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'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 don't believe in happy families.
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A recipe is a story that ends with a good meal.
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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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Families without songs are unhappy families.
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Craziness attacks the softest eyes and hamstrings the gentlest flanks.
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I had come to a place where I was meant to be. I don't mean anything so prosaic as a sense of coming home. This was different, very different. It was like arriving at a place much safer than home.
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We wait for the tortoises to come. We wait for that lady who walks them. That’s how art works. It’s never a jackrabbit, or a racehorse. It’s the tortoises that hold all the secrets. We’ve got to be patient enough to wait for them.
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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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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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Through sports a coach can offer a boy a secret way to sneak up on the mystery that is manhood.
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Love had always issued out of the places that hurt the most.
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Evil would always come to me disguised in systems and dignified by law.
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... the wing of a fly is proof enough of the existence of God for me.
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The only word for goodness is goodness, and it is not enough.
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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 way I could endure being a coward was if I was the only one who knew it.
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Except for memory, time would have no meaning at all.
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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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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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