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A review by skwinslow
The Great Santini by Pat Conroy
4.0
Stand by for a fighter pilot.
I have loved every word Pat Conroy has written since I was in high school, yet I've read him out of order. And because I've read all of his other books, (besides The Boo, long out of print, although you better believe I found a way to score a copy upon the news of his death this past March) I felt like I intimately knew these characters before I read the first page. And I did. Some of the finer plot points were new to me, of course, but I knew Ben Meechum, and I knew Lillian, and I knew Bull. I've listened to Conroy speak about this book in his own words. And something about knowing these characters from the first chapter made this a deeply satisfying, even comforting experience, which is perhaps a strange thing to say considering the usual dose of brutality and dysfunction that Conroy serves up in perfect sentences. This is Conroy flexing his writing muscles. It's not a perfect book, but this is one of the first looks at a writer who became truly great. And my heart broke a bit at the end, because that is what Pat Conroy does and because although I still have The Boo, and although there is the possibility of his last novel being published posthumously, I know there will be no more great works from this master.
I have loved every word Pat Conroy has written since I was in high school, yet I've read him out of order. And because I've read all of his other books, (besides The Boo, long out of print, although you better believe I found a way to score a copy upon the news of his death this past March) I felt like I intimately knew these characters before I read the first page. And I did. Some of the finer plot points were new to me, of course, but I knew Ben Meechum, and I knew Lillian, and I knew Bull. I've listened to Conroy speak about this book in his own words. And something about knowing these characters from the first chapter made this a deeply satisfying, even comforting experience, which is perhaps a strange thing to say considering the usual dose of brutality and dysfunction that Conroy serves up in perfect sentences. This is Conroy flexing his writing muscles. It's not a perfect book, but this is one of the first looks at a writer who became truly great. And my heart broke a bit at the end, because that is what Pat Conroy does and because although I still have The Boo, and although there is the possibility of his last novel being published posthumously, I know there will be no more great works from this master.