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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.

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
Sea
Inked
Raised
Carolina
Gold
Island
Dark
Islands
Born
Carried
Back
Sunshine
Country
Shoulders
Lows

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Know this. I think you could be special if you only thought there was anything special about yourself.
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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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I wrote to explain my own life to myself, stories are the vessels I use to interpret the world to myself.
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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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Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends.
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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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From the very beginning, I wrote to explain my own life to myself, and I invited any readers who chose to make the journey with me to join me on the high wire.
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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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There is no downside to winning. It feels forever fabulous.
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Rape is a crime against sleep and memory it's afterimage imprints itself like an irreversible negative from the camera obscura of dreams.
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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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I was born to be a point guard, but not a very good one.
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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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The only word for goodness is goodness, and it is not enough.
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My father wouldn't let me take typing in childhood.
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If not for sports, I do not think my father would have ever talked to me.
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Walking the streets of Charleston in the late afternoons of August was like walking through gauze or inhaling damaged silk.
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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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Writing poetry and reading books causes brain damage.
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Her laughter was a shiny thing, like pewter flung high in the air.
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