Faulkner didn’t know he was William Faulkner. But they had to take the first step. They had to call themselves writers. That is the first revolutionary act a writer has to make. It takes courage. But it’s necessary
PAT CONROYMan wonders but God decides When to kill the Prince of Tides.
More Pat Conroy Quotes
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Charleston has a landscape that encourages intimacy and partisanship.
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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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South Carolina is not a state; it is a cult.
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Carolina beach music,” Dupree said, coming up on the porch. “The holiest sound on earth.
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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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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.
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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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My soul grazes like a lamb on the beauty of an indrawn tide.
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Mama always taught her children that words were pretty, but anyone can talk. She said, pay attention to that man or woman who acted, who did, who performed. She taught us to trust in thing we could see, not that we heard.
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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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Anyone who knows me well must understand and be sympathetic to my genuine need to be my own greatest hero. It is not a flaw of character; it is a catastrophe.
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I don’t know why it is that I have always been happier thinking of somewhere I have been or wanted to go, than where I am at the time. I find it difficult to be happy in the present.
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The Storied South , is a love song to the South Bill helped illuminate. It’s a crowning achievement of his own storied career.
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Teach them the quiet words of kindness, to live beyond themselves.
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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.
PAT CONROY