Pat Conroy

I rarely buy hardcover fiction. But I couldn’t wait for Pat Conroy’s South of Broad to come out in paperback. When listing favorite books on social network sites, I list his name along with individual titles from other authors. I can't limit my praise of him to one or two books though. Not one of his books has ever disappointed me; from the haunting beauty of The Prince of Tides, through the sorrow filled love of Beach Music, to the rollicking determination of My Losing Season, each is spellbinding, lyrical, and so full of honest emotion you feel all of the sweat, all of the brokenness, all of the beauty . He writes like a fresh young fighter full of testosterone jolted cockiness that is the armor for the fast beating heart that fears failure ~ no holds barred. His way with words makes me ashamed to call myself a writer.

This is on page one of the prologue;

“I carry the delicate porcelain beauty of Charleston like the hinged shell of some soft-tissued mollusk. My soul is peninsula shaped and sun-hardened and river-swollen. The high tides of the city flood my consciousness every day, subject to the whims and harmonies of full moons rising out of the Atlantic. I grow calm when I see the ranks of palmetto trees pulling guard duty on the banks of Colonial Lake or hear the bells of St. Michael’s calling cadence in the cicada-filled trees along Meeting Street…I consider it a high privilege to be a native of one of the loveliest American cities, not a high-kicking, glossy, or lipsticked city, not a city with bells on its fingers or brightly colored toenails, but a ruffled, low-slung city, understated and tolerant of nothing mismade or ostentatious.”

And on page four you are hit with a sucker punch, ripping you from the sweet beauty of the city. It is here we first learn of our characters ~ of a father who "treated the stars as though they were love songs written to him by God", and a mother who "once wrote a citique of Richard Ellman's biography of James Joyce for the New York Review of Books", an older brother who "had a natural way about him that appealed to the higher instincts of adults" and of the main character who "could always feel a flinty, unconquerable spirit staring out of the mangroves and the inpenetrable rain forests inside me, a spirit who waited with a mineral patience for that day I was to claim myself back because of my own fierce need of survival."

I am captivated by page six, and I am reluctant to allow myself to go further today, beyond the prologue, because I don't think I'd have the strength to put the book down before it was finished, and I don't want to lose it so soon. I want to allow myself the luxury of savoring each page, each word.

Because of Pat Controy's words, Charleston is on my radar for this fall. If you have never read his books, you are missing some of America's treasures.

With blessings,

Melinda