| Title | : | The Death of Santini: The Story of a Father and His Son |
| Author | : | |
| Rating | : | |
| ISBN | : | 0385530900 |
| ISBN-10 | : | 9780385530903 |
| Language | : | English |
| Format Type | : | Hardcover |
| Number of Pages | : | 352 |
| Publication | : | First published January 1, 2013 |
Pat Conroy's father, Donald Patrick Conroy, was a towering figure in his son's life. The Marine Corps fighter pilot was often brutal, cruel, and violent; as Pat says, "I hated my father long before I knew there was an English word for 'hate.'" As the oldest of seven children who were dragged from military base to military base across the South, Pat bore witness to the toll his father's behavior took on his siblings, and especially on his mother, Peg. She was Pat's lifeline to a better world-that of books and culture. But eventually, despite repeated confrontations with his father, Pat managed to claw his way toward a life he could have only imagined as a child.
Pat's great success as a writer has always been intimately linked with the exploration of his family history. While the publication of The Great Santini brought Pat much acclaim, the rift it caused with his father brought even more attention. Their long-simmering conflict burst into the open, fracturing an already battered family. But as Pat tenderly chronicles here, even the oldest of wounds can heal. In the final years of Don Conroy's life, he and his son reached a rapprochement of sorts. Quite unexpectedly, the Santini who had freely doled out physical abuse to his wife and children refocused his ire on those who had turned on Pat over the years. He defended his son's honor.
The Death of Santini is at once a heart-wrenching account of personal and family struggle and a poignant lesson in how the ties of blood can both strangle and offer succor. It is an act of reckoning, an exorcism of demons, but one whose ultimate conclusion is that love can soften even the meanest of men, lending significance to one of the most-often quoted lines from Pat's bestselling novel The Prince of Tides: "In families there are no crimes beyond forgiveness."
The Death of Santini: The Story of a Father and His Son Reviews
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If you've never read Conroy, there's no reason to read this book.
If you've read some Conroy, it may look interesting but I don't know if it would hold you.
If you've read nearly all Conroy (like me) it's basically essential, even though it's much like Conroy himself: a mix of brilliant and maddening.
At times his prose just kills me with its emotion and loveliness. But he has his weaknesses, and his ability to tell real stories from his own life isn't always as strong as his ability to write fictional versions of it. It doesn't help that he has no real story to tell here, the book is a mishmash of his life through several decades. Without a guiding thread it tends to go all over the place, especially in the second half.
Still, for Conroy lovers it's practically required. You finally get a good look at his mother and father and siblings. (He's much more guarded about his wives and children.) There's plenty of juicy stuff about the family's response to THE GREAT SANTINI and their ongoing love-hate relationship with the town of Beaufort. You get to see a lot of where his inspiration for BEACH MUSIC came from.
And while he is often maddening, it's hard to call Conroy out on it because he already knows it. He's perfectly willing to admit it right there on the page. And he'll still bring you completely to tears with his father's eulogy, given in full at the end of the book. -
If Pat Conroy writes it, the star rating will always be five. Conroy says this is his last goodbye in books to his dad and mom. It will be interesting to see how he shapes the books yet to come. This last book met my expectations of a great book, but it stands somehow unique to me. First, he is more ready to stand back and let us into the darker side of his mother. As he describes it, the mother portrayed in his previous works were the mother seen through her child's eyes. It wasn't so much about who she was but who her child thought she was. In this book we find more an adult distance that identifies her dysfunction, something that we all along knew had to be there since any mother who allows seven children to be so brutalized has something in work in her that cannot be right. He doesn't "let loose" on her but her issues get some press in The Death of Santini.
Unlike the previous works, I felt a bit more nervous reading this one. Conroy comes across much more as the tattle tale. He means to do it. He means to do it hard and ugly. He means to cut jugular veins. In his other works, the stories were there, but they came across not so much as "tell alls" but as, well, stories. This one seems to be much more clear about who I am supposed to like and who I am to not like.
I am left with the quandary about how near and dear the Great Santini is to Conroy. If he is who Conroy describes him to be, I am left with the moral puzzle about how much is overlooked, or if overlooked is not the word, perhaps dismissed. Family is not a god, but it seems to be for Conroy. No matter what, there is family. Really? Do we have to consciously attach ourselves to so much absurd dysfunction simply because we happened to be born into it? Do we really end up praising a man, such as the Great Santini, who never admitted to the terrorism inflicted on his family and sought forgiveness? I have the feeling somehow, that Conroy's path is the one we generally believe it not wise to take - children propitiating the gods so that parents can get a pass on their hate, self-absorption, infantilism, and perpetual cycle of self-vindication. At some point do we not call what Pat Conroy is doing regression?
The best paragraph in the book goes like this: “Not a single family finds itself exempt from that one haunted casualty who suffered irreparable damage in the crucible they entered at birth. Where some children can emerge from conditions of soul-killing abuse and manage to make their lives into something of worth and value, others can’t limp away from the hurts and gleanings time decanted for them in flawed beakers of memory. They carry the family cross up the hill toward Calvary and don’t mind letting every other member of their aggrieved tribe in on the source of their suffering. There is one crazy that belongs to each of us: the brother who kills the spirit of any room he enters; the sister who’s a drug addict in her teens and marries a series of psychopaths, always making sure she bears their children, who carry their genes of madness to the grave. There’s the neurotic mother who’s so demanding that the sound of her voice over the phone can cause instant nausea in her daughters. The variations are endless and fascinating. I’ve never attended a family reunion where I was not warned of a Venus flytrap holding court among the older women, or a pitcher plant glistening with drops of sweet poison trying to sell his version of the family maelstrom to his young male cousins. When the stories begin rolling out, as they always do, one learns of feuds that seem unbrokerable, or sexual abuse that darkens each tale with its intimation of ruin. That uncle hates that aunt and that cousin hates your mother and your sister won’t talk to your brother because of something he said to a date she later married and then divorced. In every room I enter I can sniff out unhappiness and rancor like a snake smelling the nest of a wren with its tongue. Without even realizing it, I pick up associations of distemper and aggravation. As far as I can tell, every family produces its solitary misfit, its psychotic mirror image of all the ghosts summoned out of the small or large hells of childhood, the spiller of the apple cart, the jack of spades, the black-hearted knight, the shit stirrer, the sibling with the uncontrollable tongue, the father brutal by habit, the uncle who tried to feel up his nieces, the aunt too neurotic ever to leave home. Talk to me all you want about happy families, but let me loose at a wedding or a funeral and I’ll bring you back the family crazy. They’re that easy to find.”
I will go back and read The Death of Santini again and all the other books he authored. Because I love Conroy and his art. But there is not doubt that I am reading a man who interior landscape is always and simply what happened to him as a child. -
When my requested copy of "The Death of Santini" came to my library I had to put everything aside to explore this autobiography by one of my very favorite authors. By page four of the prologue the tears were flowing. Pat Conroy put the words on paper that I have been wanting to write my whole life. Though not an exact replica, my life growing up as the daughter of a Senior Master Sargent, in the army, held similar emotions for me that Conroy so eloquently describes. I got through the prologue though I laid the book down several times wondering if I would be able to read much further. I did pick it up again and found that Conroy's description of the publication of
The Great Santini so fascinating I couldn't stop turning the pages. Before reading this autobiography I do recommend reading "The Great Santini" which is fiction heavily based the authors's extremely dysfunctional family. I was in awe of the bravery Conroy took to expose his family when he knew they would be shocked, humiliated, and angry. I can only think that it was his infinite hope that somehow it would repair the broken bridge to a good relationship with his father. I enjoyed reading about his family which was close to mine. It made me laugh and cry and by the end of the novel I realized that because of Conroy's bravery I also had a cathartic experience. -
Pat Conroy’s classic southern novel
The Great Santini is, in the words of the author, the story of his own family growing up as the children of a Marine Corps colonel and a sharecropper’s granddaughter. In his penultimate book, The Death of Santini: The Story of a Father and His Son, Conroy describes his actual life with his family and his father, Marine fighter pilot Col. Don Conroy, the original Great Santini. This nickname even appears on his military gravestone at the National Cemetery in Beaufort, South Carolina.
I’ve heard this book described as a sequel to The Great Santini but it is more apt to call it the real story behind The Great Santini. One does, of course need to take such statements with a grain of salt, especially when dealing with published authors. I learned a lot about Pat Conroy from reading both books, this one especially, but I believe I learned as much by reading between the lines as I did reading Pat’s stories. It was obvious that everyone in the Conroy family became masters in the art of domestic survival and other forms of passive aggressive behavior. Every interaction they had with anyone was, first and foremost, a defensive maneuver. No statement was ever taken at face value. Everything said was carefully examined for subtext that could conceal a verbal attack. It’s no wonder that most of the Conroy kids considered suicide and Tom, the youngest son, unfortunately did.
I was particularly interested to read about how the family got on after Santini was published. While Col. Conroy was at first enraged by the book he soon realized that it was his ticket to fame and he embraced the roll, getting a custom license plate reading SANTINI and attending book signings with his son and gloating when his autograph line was longer than Pat’s.
I usually read two books at one time, one text and one audio and often make sure the books are of different genres so that I don’t mix them up in my head. This time, though, I read The Great Santini while listening to the audio version of The Death of Santini. The experience was a bit confusing but overall it was fascinating. It reminded me of “Ghosts of History” a website where images of soldiers from past wars are superimposed over recent photograph of the same location. It also showed me how actual people from Pat’s life became characters in his novels. Bernie Schein, Conroy’s best friend from high school can be none other than Sammy Wertzberger in Santini.
Bottom line: Having read both books I feel like I have an almost three-dimensional view of the Conroy family and of Pat Conroy in particular. He was a magnificent writer who took to heart more than anyone else
Ernest Hemingway's statement that “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” -
As some of you may know, I love Pat Conroy’s writing style. He can paint a scene better than pretty much any other author that I have ever read. This memoir had me laughing and crying. Although it’s often raw and painful (Pat was the oldest of seven children, five of whom tried to kill themselves before the age of forty); there is so much love and a wonderful sense of closure.
Here’s an anecdote that I’ve seen him write about in another book, as well as a quote:
“Tell Him the Wrong Number, Mom. One Digit. Just One Digit.”
“Sometimes on the long car trips we spent rotating between Southern air bases, my father would tell the romantic story of his chance encounter with Peggy Peek as she drifted out of Davison’s department store on Peachtree Street. He said, ‘I was in Atlanta getting some extra training before they shipped me out to the Philippines. I asked a barber where I could hunt up some broads and he told me the best place was down on Peachtree, right in the middle of the city. So I hopped a bus and got off and started walking around, sort of scouting the place out. Then your mother came out of a store in a red dress, carrying some shopping bags. Man, what a package. What a figure. I mean, this was one fine-looking Southern girl. So I followed her across the street. She was walking with two other girls. They were sisters, but I didn’t know that then. I started up a conversation with her. You know. Showed her some suave moves of a Chicago boy. Told her I was a pilot—getting ready to go to war. Back then, it was always a sure pickup line with the broads. But I couldn’t get your mother or her sisters to even talk to me. I mean, talk about three cold fish! But they’d never met a Chicago boy, especially one as charming as me. So I kept going, ratcheting up the pressure, throwing out my best lines. I told Peg I was heading off to war, would probably be dead in a month or two, but was willing to die for my country, and wanted to live long enough to bomb Tokyo. Then I saw a bus coming up to the stop and watched in panic as your mother and her sisters got on. No air-conditioning back then, so all the windows were raised. Jesus Christ, I was starting to panic. Your mother sat by the window. So I started begging, begging, which I’m not ashamed to admit. I begged her for an address, a telephone number, the name of her father, anything. We could go dancing, to a movie, maybe make out a little bit. “The bus took off and I took off with it, running my ass off, pleading with this broad. I didn’t even know her name and she hadn’t said a word to me. The bus began to pull away from me and I felt like I had struck out big-time when your mother stuck her pretty head out of the bus window and said, ‘BR3-2638.’ Ain’t it a bee-you-tu-ful story? And we lived happily ever after.’ From the backseat of our station wagon, Carol Ann always wailed out into the night: ‘Tell him the wrong number, Mom. One digit. Just one digit and none of this had to happen. None of us would’ve been born. Tell him the wrong number, Mom. Please. For all of us, tell him the wrong number.’”
Black Sheep in Every Family
“Not a single family finds itself exempt from that one haunted casualty who suffered irreparable damage in the crucible they entered at birth. Where some children can emerge from conditions of soul-killing abuse and manage to make their lives into something of worth and value, others can’t limp away from the hurts and gleanings time decanted for them in flawed beakers of memory. … There is one crazy that belongs to each of
us: the brother who kills the spirit of any room he enters; the sister who’s a drug addict in her teens and marries a series of psychopaths, always making sure she bears their children, who carry their genes of madness to the grave. There’s the neurotic mother who’s so demanding that the sound of her voice over the phone can cause instant nausea in her daughters…. Talk to me all you want about happy families, but let me loose at a wedding or a funeral and I’ll bring you back the family crazy.” -
Nov 27, 7am ~~ Review asap.
Nov 27, 130pm ~~ Anyone who reads Pat Conroy knows there is pain on every page, so I was expecting a painful read with this book that shared more family history and the passing away of first his mother and then his father, immortalized in an early book as The Great Santini.
Painful I expected and painful I got. Intensely, gruesomely painful. And I was left wondering about courage. Is it more courageous to stay locked into childhood family roles to the end of time, knowing that your family is tripping your triggers, knowing what you are doing, in hopes that you can finally 'fix' the situation, that there will be miraculous changes in the people around you?
Or is it better to cut and run, to mature beyond the automatic responses you learned in childhood and protect your Self, grow into something perhaps a little less obsessed? Devotion to family is an admirable thing, but when it comes at the cost of your own mental health?
I have wondered in the past how Conroy survived his childhood, and after reading this book I wonder how he survived his adulthood. Not a pleasant book, in my opinion, and I was left saddened and a little disgusted by it all, rather than uplifted, as I apparently was supposed to feel. -
I'm always giddy when Conroy has a new publication!
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I am not a fan of ice storms in the south, as I am a warm weather fiend and much prefer the humid, sunny days we're used to. But with everything shut up tight and nowhere to go, I spent the day finishing Conroy's latest book. My feelings have been all over the map regarding this one.....wanting to throw it across the room at some points because, really Pat, how many people and places can you blame for the man you turned out to be? Your Mom and Dad we're used to from reading your fiction, but Chicago, the Irish, Irish Catholics, Beaufort, SC, the Citadel, brothers and sisters, really? But then comes a passage of such beauty and clarity that I remember why you are such a beloved writer, and your love for the south in all it's lovely and horrible manifestations comes shining through the pages.
As my husband is fond of saying, perception is reality. For the 7 Conroy children, apparently each one has a different perception of their parents, ranging from abusive to neglectful. Even Pat Conroy can't decide which way to go, he contradicts himself at every turn. His mother was a saint, a bitch, an ignorant redneck, a victim, an egotistical woman who hated her daughters. His father was a demon, a beloved fighter pilot, a nasty and abusive man who disciplined with his fists, a smart man with a great sense of humor, or a stupid Chicago street kid. Take your pick.
The Death of Santini takes us through the history of the Conroy family from Pat's perspective as the oldest child. Somewhere along the line he learned that you can hurt people just as deeply with words as with fists, and he uses that power to his advantage, relating episodes and conversations that would have deeply embarrassed the participants were they still alive to know. Because Conroy knows how to use words, no mistake about that.
The end of this book left me confused about The Great Santini and the man who fathered the man who created him. What is the truth? Does even Pat Conroy know how he really feels about the love/hate relationship he had with both of his parents?
And then there's the eulogy he delivered for his father's funeral at the end of the book. God, the beauty of those words, the emotion they inspire! That's where the 4 stars comes from in my rating. I'm sorry Conroy's childhood was such a tragedy for him, maybe it's the result of having a sensitive soul. He even admits that not all his siblings agree with his version. But he's used his hurt to create a body of work he can be proud of. Not to mention making him a very rich man. That's got to be worth something. And like I said, he does know how to use words. -
As Pat Conroy acknowledges early in this memoir-of-sorts he has been writing about his family for decades, oh-so-thinly veiling their identities in novels such as THE GREAT SANTINI, THE LORDS OF DISCIPLINE, THE PRINCE OF TIDES, and BEACH MUSIC. This time, though, he promises to avoid the misdirections of fiction and address his family's twisted history as straightforward as possible.
He should've stayed with the novels.
If you've read a Conroy novel (or read about the novelist himself), then you are likely well aware that Pat, his six brothers & sisters, and his mother suffered greatly under the iron reign of Col. Donald "The Great Santini" Conroy -- a celebrated Marine aviator and renowned cautionary tale. As the title of this work indicates, THE DEATH OF SANTINI has an air of finality about it -- a sense that is quickly reinforced when the author promises his now-deceased parents that this is the last time he will delve into their histories for purposes of publication.
He should've stopped before starting this book.
More than simply detailing the death of his father, this book purports to provide a non-fictional account of life among the Conroys. Among other topics, we're taken back to Pat's childhood; we're shown the enraged reactions of family members far & near after the publication of THE GREAT SANTINI; we delve into his parents' upbringing, and we're taken into hospitals for the final moments of both Don and his by-then-ex wife, Peg.
Though there are definitely certain scenes that are both engaging and enlightening, much of this book reads as a somewhat scattershot first draft. The narrative drifts, sometimes repeats itself, & occasionally contradicts itself in terms of when certain events occur. Conroy's signature ability to portray even moments of depravity with soaring prose seems out of place in many sections with the dialogue -- especially among Pat, his mother, and his sister Carol Ann -- sounding particularly stilted.
Finally, though this purports to be a book about relationships, it comes off more as a re-telling of scenes from the history of a family whose members rarely, if ever, show the slightest bit of love or compassion for one another. The "redemption" of Don Conroy (which Pat has referred to as one of life's great second acts) seems to consist mostly of his decision to stop hitting his now-adult children, thus limiting his abuse to verbal and psychological. And though Conroy alludes to Carol Ann's struggles with mental illness, she is primarily portrayed as mean, selfish, and over-dramatically insecure. The other siblings emerge from background cardboard-cutout status only when they do or say something particularly offensive or otherwise egregious. Even Pat's mother, for whom he proclaims undying love and adoration, is often shown in a decidedly unflattering (and occasionally downright ugly) light.
If the entire book could be condensed into three sentences, it would be these: We said and did terrible things. We treated each other horribly. But we claimed to love each other regardless.
I love Pat Conroy's prose. I treasure many of his novels. But his family, as portrayed in THE DEATH OF SANTINI, is either the victim of one of literature's great hit jobs or is composed of some of the most unlikeable people you will ever meet. Whichever is closer to the truth, it doesn't justify the time spent with this book. -
To reach a plateau of understanding about yourself, your family and your situation is a phenomenon in itself. This is the true story of The Great Santini, no holds barred. His father was a real brute; abusive at all times, very opinionated, treated his daughters as if they didn't exist and with abusive men I know (as they get older) they deny all the accusations.
Let me not leave out their mother, Peggy Conroy. She waited 30 years to divorce their father instead of taking them out of that miserable situation. She was just as abusive as her husband and places herself on a pedestal over her kids (she looks like the belle of the ball & they look like chicken scraps). She has a true loathing for her daughters and was devious when she chose to be.
This unity of marriage was a macabre in the making. The unity created 7 kids and they all grew up with issues and some even attempted suicide. Pat Conroy had several nervous breakdowns, Carol Ann had mental issues and Tom Conroy, succeeded in committing suicide by jumping off a 14-floor building.
In order to get through a traumatic experience, you must be willing to forgive. Pat did just that and developed a real communicable relationship with his father. I loved Don Conroy through this narration and had a slight contempt for Peggy. She just came out to me as haughty with a 8th grade education, distant and self-absorbed.
There are 2 things I wished for while reading this book. 1. I wished they had gotten Carol Ann the help she needed. She was really torn up emotionally by her family and expressed a deep dislike for her brothers. 2. I wished that I had met Pat Conroy before his death last year. -
Pat Conroy was in Nashville for a publicity tour October 29 -- the day this book came out. Four of my friends and I were able to attend -- front row seats! -- when he was interviewed by Ann Patchett. He can tell a story in person as well as he can write so it was a real treat. Several of the stories he told appeared in the book and we all laughed until our sides hurt. He has a talent for sarcastic humor that might be best appreciated by those of us from large, dysfunctional families. To me he is one of the best writers around and I look forward to anything he writes.
This book is a non-fiction account of his autobiographical novels -- Water is Wide, The Great Santini, The Lords of Discipline and Prince of Tides. I thoroughly enjoyed reading especially because I had read all of the novels. I do believe that his editor of 30 years -- Nan Talese -- could have done a tighter job of editing. I found some repetition and wished for a timeline. I found myself going back to those books to check the year of publication to try to get events in the right time period.
Supposedly this book will be the last he writes about his family. However, I think he may still have some stories to tell and if so, I look forward to reading. -
My mother was an avid reader, plowing through two or three books every week, always searching for that wonderful gem, which she would then direct me, in no uncertain terms, to read: “I just discovered your next book - “The Prince of Tides” - and you need to read it. Let me know what you think the next time you come over for dinner.” I suspected an implied threat; worse, this book’s review was not appealing, not my genre. But wait - Pat Conroy - he wrote “The Great Santini.” Every Marine officer knows who that is, the most famous Marine fighter pilot whoever lived! And that began my fascination with Pat Conroy, the author, collecting all of his works. (Yes, I gave “The Prince of Tides” five stars.) If you’re familiar with the story, then “The Death of Santini” belongs on your winter reading list. It’s a little tedious at times, but that’s when you just sit back and enjoy the structure of Conroy’s sentences.mb
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The relationship between father and son is examined in detail, after the fiction of the Great Santini. Parents shape their children for both good and bad. This story examines it in Pat Conroy's case.
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I always feel hugely foolish in trying to write any sort of review for a book written by Pat Conroy. There is too much in my opinion to summarize. One must read his books.
I love the way Pat Conroy writes, the way he constructs his sentences, for me it reads like poetry. I believe there are two poets in the Conroy family. I hope this book does complete the circle for Pat Conroy and that he can move on and beyond this place he has occupied all his life. Often it takes the death of parents to see ones parents as a human being and not just as our mothers or fathers, but as a person all their own, with their own demons that tortured them all of their lives. I heard not too long ago these words in reference from a parent to a child, "I was messed up before you ever got here." We all inflict on our children the demons we acquired from our own childhood, we might not mean to, we might even say, never will I....., but we do. We are humans and we are flawed and yes, we were messed up before our children ever entered our lives. We fortunately and unfortunately repeat our behaviors and actions that we absorbed when we were developing, often not even aware of the harm or the good that we are inflicting and passing on to our little ones.
This is a thoughtful book about Pat's parents and his siblings. Although I think Carol Anne may be more than a little upset at the ways in which Pat Conroy has described her. Pat writes the good and the bad about his parents and siblings. Reading this book will make you laugh and cry and perhaps remember your own childhood both fondly and well not so fondly, but more than that it will make you feel and isn't this why we read books, not just to understand, but to feel. -
To me, Pat Conroy is a poet, a guide, a soul which has suffered the brutality that only a child betrayed by his protectors would understand and a man brave enough to trudge through the poisoned debris, trying to make sense and find peace with that which was truly senseless. In his actual, not fictionalized autobiography, he is not the puppet master of his novel's characters. The lives of his family- parents, siblings, wives, children- are in control of their lives, and the fallout which develops hits the real and deeply cared about family members he tries to rescue repeatedly. I put this book aside after many a passage, to reflect on, and appreciate the words, phrases and thoughts he used to frame such terrifically painful times, to write the power out of them as he tried to understand as a man and release the child to be able to continue to love whoever and however he was able.
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Pat Conroy's "The Death of Santini" is a haunting, intimate memoir packed with danger.
Conroy spares no detail in describing his turbulent family life, warts and all. And the effect is seductive, as in the seductive pull of watching a train wreck. Heart-wretching as it was to read, I simply could not put this magnificent book down.
As usual, Conroy's writing is eloquent, his characterizations are painfully thorough, and his descriptions are poetically beautiful.
I strongly recommend "The Death of Santini" to those who enjoy family dramas, particularly Southern family dramas. -
There are not enough words to describe my praise for Pat Conroy. Not only is he an extraordinary storyteller but he evokes my emotions than any other novel. I have read numerous of novels with diverse genres but there is not one author that can match the beauty of his writing style. I will even go far to say that not one author that is similar to him, the way he develops stories is a gift from God. None can match his vulnerability or master his courage to write personal stories told from the heart.
This was a very vivid and heartbreaking novel about Pat's life until adulthood. It was more about paying tribute to his family and the lessons he instilled in life. Many scenes was difficult to get through, the pain he afflicted through his childhood made me feel sympathetic to his trials. Don Conroy was a ruthless man that I have a hard time actually believing that men like him exist! Not only was he physically abusive but he was mentally as well emotionally harsh. Yet for some strange reason, a part of me wishes that he turned his life around for the better. In addition, the love that Pat had for his mother was touching and painful. Pat loved her so much that words would not be enough to describe the steadfast love he had for her.
Furthermore, the pictures that accompanied the novel was sweet. To match a photo to his siblings, parents or friends name was remarkable. I can tell how much Pat loved his siblings, despite the disagreements that they shared over the years.
The years Pat went through as a child to a young adult and now a man will forever stay in my heart. Many moments I was almost crying uncontrollably because of how obscene and vivid the scenes were. It was almost impossible to endure but yet I stayed reading until I reached the unforgettable conclusion.
Pat I just want to thank you for sharing your stories with the world. If there is anything that your books taught me was that there is freedom in forgiveness.
God preserve Pat Conroy, no author can write as beautifully and poetic as this man! -
Reading this book certainly clears up any confusion about the fictional characters in Conroy's books and members of his family. Apparently, all of his characters are based on his family, and each member of his family was aware of their role in the books and films. Consequently, his relationships are skewed by his fame and his public depictions of his and their lives. As with most families (or all of them), each member has a different perspective, recalls events differently, and has unique relationships with everyone in the family. It seems at times, that Conroy wants to be seen as the truth-teller, the one who knew and told how it really was in his house. And, the abuse and mental illness in his family was rampant. 5 of 7 siblings attempt suicide. One succeeds. Conroy, who also describes mentions his mental breakdowns, does not actually describe in any detail how those breakdowns evolved or what he means by a breakdown. He also revolts, that at times, he has been an abusive father and husband. He also seems to believe that his constant truth telling/venting/harangues to his family about the pathologies in the family will cure him. But, it didn't and hasn't. This book is interesting, but I did not have the feeling that I knew his family or Conroy any better. Nor did I see the reconciliation with his father as real: it just seemed to be a continuing variation of verbal and emotional abuse. The difference being, that Conroy as an adult, can now be abusive and dramatic toward his father in ways that his father had been toward him. Not sure if that is progress.
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Like so much of the Pat Conroy’s earlier work, this highly charged act of remembrance explores the sources of what he once called “the disfigurements of spirit” that inevitably arise from childhoods marked by physical and emotional abuse. The cost of membership in Santini’s family was always high, and the narrative is littered with accounts of mental illness, multiple breakdowns and familial estrangements, culminating in the suicide of the youngest Conroy sibling, Tom.
Despite the inherently bleak nature of so much of this material, Conroy has fashioned a memoir that is vital, large-hearted and often raucously funny. The result is an act of hard-won forgiveness, a deeply considered meditation on the impossibly complex nature of families and a valuable contribution to the literature of fathers and sons.
Read our review here:
http://www.washingtonpost.com/enterta... -
Pat Conroy's last memoir about his life and mostly the story behind The Great Santini. A heart wrenching story starting from The Citadel and ultimately into his life as writer. The story weaves his father in and out of his life and obviously played an important role in his life. If you're a Pat Conroy fan you've probably already read this, but to those you have not this is both an ode to his father and also a heartfelt reflection on his life. I enjoyed this better than My Losing Season.
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I enjoyed listening to this book about Pat Conroy's father and their relationship. Pat's use of humour gives relief to this dramatic story of a domineering father who emotionally and physically bullies his eldest son. The boy quickly learns to hate his father until many years later when they reconcile and hatred is turned and blossoms into love.
4 stars -
If you've read Pat Conroy books, this will fill you with dread & sadness as he writes about his childhood and the resulting traumas he and his siblings faced. It explains so much. And, he doesn't exempt himself from his own mistakes and failures. There are family stories I knew nothing about - tragic ones. Heartbreaking. We all experience difficult times and are constantly trying to figure out ourselves & our lives...Pat Conroy is just so gifted about it with his eloquence and dark humor. Loved him.
I am a little bit fanatical about listening to the musical Hamilton. One song always makes me cry - the one about forgiveness. Forgiveness, can you imagine? That is what moved me in this book as well. Forgiveness of the Great Santini. God speed Pat Conroy. You showed others the way towards a better peace. -
from On A Clear Day I Can Read Forever,
http://patebooks.wordpress.com
"Stand by for a fighter pilot!'' If you read Pat Conroy's 1976 novel The Great Santini, or saw the movie starring Robert Duvall, you will remember how the children of Marine Corps pilot Bull Meecham would line up like small soldiers to welcome their father home. What you might not know is that scene repeated in real life at military bases across the South for the seven kids of Donald Conroy and his wife Peg -- as did the physical and verbal abuse vividly recounted in book and film.
"The Conroy children were all casualties of war, conscripts in a battle we didn't sign up for on the bloodied envelope of our birth certificates,'' writes eldest son Pat near the beginning of his heartfelt new memoir, The Last of Santini (Nan Talese/Doubleday, digital galley). "I've got to try and make sense of it one last time, a final circling of the block, a reckoning, another dive into the caves of the coral reef where the morays wait in ambush, one more night flight into the immortal darkness to study that house of pain one final time.''
If this strikes you as so much hyperbole, you probably haven't read much or any of Conroy's fiction. But fans -- and I count myself as one -- are familiar with his extravagant prose style and the autobiographical nature of his novels. Conroy has long spun his dysfunctional family ties into entertaining stories. His flawed protagonists -- The Prince of Tides' Tom Wingo, Beach Music's Jack McCall, South of Broad's Leo King -- are all haunted by their pasts and troubled parents, siblings, spouses. Life is a mix of pain and dread, leavened by humor and a measure of forgiveness. No wonder that some of Conroy's own relatives have taken umbrage seeing versions of themselves in print. Don Conroy was initially outraged by The Great Santini, but he eventually enjoyed the fame and would show up to sign copies with his son.
Although Conroy writes affectionately of his much-married maternal grandmother and movingly of his mother, a faux Southern belle who introduced him to books and the reading life, he never strays far from stories about his formidable father. As the eldest child, Pat was a favorite punching bag, and he acknowledges he hated his father for years. Writing was a way of exorcising the demons. Still, as both men grew older, a tentative truce was declared, and Don Conroy, if never a good father, proved a fond grandparent and uncle.
But not all of Conroy's stories end happily or peacefully. His younger brother Tom killed himself while a young man, leaving his siblings to grieve and wonder at what might have been. And his sister, the poet Carol Conway, is still estranged from Pat, disagreeing with his memories of their shared childhood.
When Conroy's memoir My Reading Life was published two years ago, I suggested we all give thanks to Peg Conroy for giving her son the gift of books and love of words. That book was his tribute to her, and he gave her and Margaret Mitchell's Gone With the Wind credit for turning him into a Southern novelist. The Death of Santini is a tribute not so much to Don Conroy as a testament to his influence. He, too, helped make Pat Conroy the writer he is. Stand by for a storyteller.
