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If not for sports, I do not think my father would have ever talked to 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
Would
Think
Thinking
Talked
Sports
Father
Ever

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Man wonders but God decides When to kill the Prince of Tides.
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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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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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My mother thought of my father as half barbarian and half blunt instrument, and she isolated him from his children.
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I realized early that unless you're willing to kill the innocent, you can't win.
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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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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’ve never had anyone’s approval, so I’ve learned to live without it.
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He was one of those rare men who are capable of being fully in love only once in their lives.
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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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I don't believe in happy families.
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My father wouldn't let me take typing in childhood.
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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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Love had always issued out of the places that hurt the most.
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Happiness is an accident of nature, a beautiful and flawless aberration.
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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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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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Writing is the only way I have to explain my own life to myself.
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Without music, life is a journey through a desert.
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There is no teacher more discriminating or transforming than loss.
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