The most powerful words in English are ‘Tell me a story,’ words that are intimately related to the complexity of history, the origins of language, the continuity of the species, the taproot of our humanity, our singularity, and art itself.
PAT CONROYWe 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.
More Pat Conroy Quotes
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Each divorce is the death of a small civilization.
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Happiness is an accident of nature, a beautiful and flawless aberration.
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If the writing is good, then the result seems effortless and inevitable. But when you want to say something life-changing or ineffable in a single sentence, you face both the limitations of the sentence itself and the extent of your own talent.
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I would always be a better hater of things and institutions than a lover of them.
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But even her demons she invested with inordinate beauty, consecrated them with the dignity of her attention.
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Evil would always come to me disguised in systems and dignified by law.
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When mom and dad went to war the only prisoners they took were the children
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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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Good writing … involves the agony of turning profoundly difficult thoughts into lucid form, then forcing them into the tight-fitting uniform of language, making them visible and clear.
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Here’s what I love: when a great writer turns me into a Jew from Chicago, a lesbian out of South Carolina, or a black woman moving into a subway entrance in Harlem. Turn me into something else, writers of the world. Make me Muslim, heretic, hermaphrodite.
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And when women talk about being women, they can never quite get away from the recurrent theme of blaming men.
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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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My mother, Southern to the bone, once told me, “All Southern literature can be summed up in these words: ‘On the night the hogs ate Willie, Mama died when she heard what Daddy did to Sister.’” She raised me up to be a Southern writer, but it wasn’t easy.
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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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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.
PAT CONROY