I’ve always believed that dreams were both the love letters and the hate mail of the subconscious.
PAT CONROYThere’s no word in the language I revere more than ‘teacher.’ My heart sings when a kid refers to me as his teacher, and it always has. I’ve honored myself and the entire family of man by becoming a teacher.
More Pat Conroy Quotes
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I was born into the century in which novels lost their stories, poems their rhymes, paintings their form, and music its beauty, but that does not mean I had to like that trend or go along with it. I fight against these movements with every book I write.
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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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There’s no word in the language I revere more than ‘teacher.’ My heart sings when a kid refers to me as his teacher, and it always has. I’ve honored myself and the entire family of man by becoming a teacher.
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Put me into a crusader’s armor, a cardinal’s vestments. Let me feel the pygmy’s heartbeat, the queen’s breast, the torturer’s pleasure, the Nile’s taste, or the nomad’s thirst.
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Baseball fans love numbers. They love to swirl them around their mouths like Bordeaux wine.
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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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One does not know where love will take you.
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There is such a thing as too much beauty in a woman and it is often a burden as crippling as homeliness and far more dangerous. It takes much luck and integrity to survive the gift of perfect beauty, and its impermanence is its most cunning betrayal.
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I do not have any other way of saying it. I think it happens but once and only to the very young when it feels like your skin could ignite at the mere touch of another person. You get to love like that but once.
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My soul grazes like a lamb on the beauty of an indrawn tide.
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Once I had told her that I would rather see a museum bombed than a book underlined, but she dismissed my argument as mere sentimentality. She marked her books so that stunning images and ideas would not be lost to her.
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Urge them toward excellence, drive them toward gentleness, pull them deep into yourself, pull them upward toward manhood, but softly like an angel arranging clouds. Let your spirit move through them softly.
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I could bear the memory, but I could not bear the music that made the memory such a killing thing.
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Love’s action. It isn’t talk and it never has been.
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Like everything else, love’s not worth much without some action to back it up.
PAT CONROY