Letter: No one could tell it like Pat Conroy

Thank you for the delicate and compassionate manner with which you handled the tragic story of Pat Conroy’s passing.

I’ve never read another author who can take the English language and turn it into pure poetry just by his carefully selected choice of words and phrases.

Every time I read one of his novels again, I’m transfixed by the magic of every turn of phrase, the depth to which he hones and shapes his characters, the incomparable manner with which he recreates a setting to such a degree that I feel like I’m there, smelling the saltwater, hearing the loons across the bay, tasting the salty air of the waterfront. I am, again, walking down Bay Street as I did as a child, looking at the magnificent historical antebellum homes and mansions that face the water, and smelling the rich aroma of marsh mud in Port Royal hidden among the reeds and grasses of the low tide.

I know his characters. They are friends of mine. In many ways, I am Tom Wingo. I am intimately familiar with Savannah, who is my sister, too. I grew up with Luke Wingo and the insatiable anger that he never came to terms with and that ultimately took his life. I mourn with them, cheer with them, and miss them every time I close the book. And they are no more real than Oliver Twist.

If you don’t have an author who similarly moves you, I’m saddened. To me, reading is breathing. And Pat Conroy was the freshest air that I ever breathed.

This story was originally published March 13, 2016 at 8:00 PM with the headline "Letter: No one could tell it like Pat Conroy."