[b]Pat Conroy
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.[/b]
Why, he wondered.
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. 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.
Fortunately, there appear to be no great writers here.
I was the only person in the world who thought it was a military duty to appear to be in a good mood.
They don’t call them the lords of discipline for nothing.
The human soul can always use a new tradition.
Let’s start one here.
I realized early that unless you’re willing to kill the innocent, you can’t win.
He must mean something else, she thought.
I would always be a better hater of things and institutions than a lover of them.
That makes [at least] two of us.