Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Prince of Tides
She had a serenity that both troubled and attracted adults. Grownups always suspected that she was judging them and finding them ridiculous. They were usually right. She found adults both too large and too loud. She was perfectly happy being a child and taking her time about things. She worried that she had taken too much time with her father and that he had died without knowing how much she loved him. This knowledge troubled her and helped make a naturally quiet girl even more withdrawn and introspective. She would lie in the hammock in the front yard and stare out at the river. Her blue eyes looked fierce and seemed to burn with the fury of pure water or wildflowers in storm. But there was no fury there. Only the love of a father she would never see again, a father who did not know her and never would.
These words are part of a story within the story of The Prince of Tides, by Pat Conroy. Someone at the Houston Chronicle said that "reading Pat Conroy is like watching Michelangelo paint the Sistine Chapel."
That's just about right. Why wouldn't you read this book as soon as possible?