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It is an art form to hate New York City properly. So far I have always been a featherweight debunker of New York it takes too much energy and endurance to record the infinite number of ways the city offends me.
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
Hate
York
Energy
Number
Art
City
Form
Records
Offends
Much
Cities
Endurance
Way
Numbers
Properly
Always
Takes
Record
Ways
Infinite
More quotes by Pat Conroy
I was born to be a point guard, but not a very good one.
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Writing has never been that simple for me.
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I realized early that unless you're willing to kill the innocent, you can't win.
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Good coaching is good teaching and nothing else.
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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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Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends.
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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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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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Evil would always come to me disguised in systems and dignified by law.
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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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I meet kids now who become novelists, poets, write for the theater and movies, who were simply inspired by what they saw during the Spoleto Festival.
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Her laughter was a shiny thing, like pewter flung high in the air.
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I wanted to become the seeker, the aroused and passionate explorer, and it was better to go at it knowing nothing at all, always choosing the unmarked bottle, always choosing your own unproven method, armed with nothing but faith and a belief in astonishment.
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The children of warriors in our country learn the grace and caution that come from a permanent sense of estrangement.
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I don't believe in happy families.
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Love's action. It isn't talk and it never has been.
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Families without songs are unhappy families.
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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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Comely was the town by the curving river that they dismantled in a year's time. Beautiful was Colleton in her last spring as she flung azaleas like a girl throwing rice at a desperate wedding. In dazzling profusion, Colleton ripened in a gauze of sweet gardens and the town ached beneath a canopy of promissory fragrance.
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American men are allotted just as many tears as American women. But because we are forbidden to shed them, we die long before women do, with our hearts exploding or our blood pressure rising or our livers eaten away by alcohol because that lake of grief inside us has no outlet. We, men, die because our faces were not watered enough.
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