“The sun, red and enormous, began to sink into the western sky and simultaneously the moon began to rise on the other side of the river with its own glorious shade of red, coming up out of the trees like a russet
firebird. The sun and the moon seemed to acknowledge each other and they moved in both apposition and concordance in a breathtaking dance of light across the oaks and palms. My father watched it and I thought he would cry again. He had returned to the sea from prison and his heart was a lowcountry heart. The children were
screaming, pointing to the sun, then turning to look at the rising moon, calling to the sun, then to the moon.”

This was well worth the effort. A slow dark sad book. Not for everyone. That being said I have never come across a writer who was better at putting words together than Pat Conroy.  If someone were to ask me to recommend a book that explained the modern American life this would be the one. A book of family and of place and of great sadness and of possible healing. 

“We were Americans, we were southerners, and, God help us, we were heroically and irrevocably stupid and compliant.”