I don't usually post two in one day, but I'm reading Pat Conroy's South of Broad, and this quote struck me as heartbreakingly beautiful and I wanted to put it out here.

"I collapse into a leather couch, close my eyes, and let myself drift into the luxurious easement of the library with its tiers of well- selected books. The smell of leather consoles me, and it feels like I have rested my head inside a well- oiled baseball glove. As fas as I know, no one has ever mentioned my brother's name in my mother's presence for years. Even now, in the toxic wake of this evening's passage, when I try to conjure up an image of my brother's face, I can summon only a ghostly, featureless portrait, half- sketched in sepia. All I remember is that Stephen was golden and beautiful, and that our losing him drove a stake into the heart of my family. Somehow we managed to survive that day, but none of us ever experienced the deliverance of recovery. I realize you can walk away from anything but a wounded soul."

Pat Conroy is a literary genius.