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Saints make wonderful grandfathers and lousy husbands.

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
Saints
Grandfather
Saint
Husband
Wonderful
Make
Grandfathers
Lousy
Husbands

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We've pretended too much in our family, Luke, and hidden far too much. I think we're all going to pay a high price for our inability to face the truth.
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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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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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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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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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Good writing is the hardest form of thinking.
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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 realized early that unless you're willing to kill the innocent, you can't win.
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She had so mastered the strategies of camouflage that her own history had seemed a series of well-placed mirrors that kept her hidden from herself.
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Every woman I had ever met who walked through the world appraised and classified by an extraordinary physicality had also received the keys to an unbearable solitude. It was the coefficient of their beauty, the price they had to pay.
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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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Evil would always come to me disguised in systems and dignified by law.
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Good coaching is good teaching and nothing else.
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Humanity is best described as inhumanity.
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We children sat transfixed before that moon our mother had called forth from the waters. When the moon had reached its deepest silver, my sister, Savannah, though only three, cried aloud to our mother, to Luke and me, to the river and the moon, Oh, Mama, do it again! And I had my earliest memory.
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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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Through sports a coach can offer a boy a secret way to sneak up on the mystery that is manhood.
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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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I learned that if I could read, I could cook. I surprised myself I like it.
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