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South of Broad

South of Broad

3.7 740
by Pat Conroy

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#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • “A big sweeping novel of friendship and marriage” (The Washington Post) by the celebrated author of The Prince of Tides and The Great Santini
Leopold Bloom King has been raised in a family shattered—and shadowed—by tragedy. Lonely and adrift, he searches


#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • “A big sweeping novel of friendship and marriage” (The Washington Post) by the celebrated author of The Prince of Tides and The Great Santini
Leopold Bloom King has been raised in a family shattered—and shadowed—by tragedy. Lonely and adrift, he searches for something to sustain him and finds it among a tightly knit group of outsiders. Surviving marriages happy and troubled, unrequited loves and unspoken longings, hard-won successes and devastating breakdowns, as well as Charleston, South Carolina’s dark legacy of racism and class divisions, these friends will endure until a final test forces them to face something none of them are prepared for.
Spanning two turbulent decades, South of Broad is Pat Conroy at his finest: a masterpiece from a great American writer whose passion for life and language knows no bounds.
Praise for South of Broad
“Vintage Pat Conroy . . . a big sweeping novel of friendship and marriage.”The Washington Post
“Conroy remains a magician of the page.”The New York Times Book Review
“Richly imagined . . . These characters are gallant in the grand old-fashioned sense, devoted to one another and to home. That siren song of place has never sounded so sweet.”—New Orleans Times-Picayune
“A lavish, no-holds-barred performance.”The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“A lovely, often thrilling story.”The Dallas Morning News
“A pleasure to read . . . a must for Conroy’s fans.”—Associated Press

From the Hardcover edition.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
Praise for South of Broad

"Conroy is an immensely gifted stylist…. No one can describe a tide or a sunset with his lyricism and exactitude."—Chris Bohjalian, The Washington Post

"Conroy writes with a momentum that's impossible to resist."—People, 3 of 4 stars.
"Beautifully written throughout…. Conroy is a natural at weaving great skeins of narrative, and this one will prove a great pleasure to his many fans."—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

"Conroy is a master of American fiction and he has proved it once again in this magnificent love letter to his beloved Charleston, and to friendships that will stand the test of time."—Bookpage
Praise for Beach Music

"Astonishing . . . stunning . . . the range of passions and subjects that brings life to every page is almost endless." —Washington Post Book World

"Blockbuster writing at its best." —Los Angeles Times Book Review

"Pat Conroy's writing contains a virtue now rare in most contemporary fiction: passion." —Denver Post

"Reading Pat Conroy is like watching Michelangelo paint the Sistine Chapel." —Houston Chronicle

"Incandescent." —Atlanta Journal-Constitution

"Grand." —Boston Globe

"Lyrical . . . evocative . . . Beach Music is one from the heart, and it beats with a vibrancy that cannot be denied." —Hartford Courant

"Breathtaking . . . perhaps the most eagerly awaited book of the year . . . a knockout." —Charlotte Observer

"Beach Music attains an almost ethereal beauty." —Miami Herald

"Few novelists write as well, and none as beautifully . . . Conroy's narrative is so fluid and poetic that it's apt to seduce you into reading just one more page, just one more chapter." —Lexington Herald-Leader

"Compelling storytelling . . . a page-turner . . . Conroy takes aim at our darkest emotions, lets the arrow fly, and hits a bull's-eye almost every time." —Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

From the Hardcover edition.

Chris Bohjalian
South of Broad is a big sweeping novel of friendship and marriage—and, perhaps, vintage Pat Conroy…Conroy is an immensely gifted stylist, and there are passages in the novel that are lush and beautiful and precise. No one can describe a tide or a sunset with his lyricism and exactitude. My sense is that the millions of readers who cherish Conroy's work won't be at all disappointed—and nor will anyone who owns stock in Kleenex.
—The Washington Post
Publishers Weekly

Charleston, S.C., gossip columnist Leopold Bloom King narrates a paean to his hometown and friends in Conroy's first novel in 14 years. In the late '60s and after his brother commits suicide, then 18-year-old Leo befriends a cross-section of the city's inhabitants: scions of Charleston aristocracy; Appalachian orphans; a black football coach's son; and an astonishingly beautiful pair of twins, Sheba and Trevor Poe, who are evading their psychotic father. The story alternates between 1969, the glorious year Leo's coterie stormed Charleston's social, sexual and racial barricades, and 1989, when Sheba, now a movie star, enlists them to find her missing gay brother in AIDS-ravaged San Francisco. Too often the not-so-witty repartee and the narrator's awed voice (he is very fond of superlatives) overwhelm the stories surrounding the group's love affairs and their struggles to protect one another from dangerous pasts. Some characters are tragically lost to the riptides of love and obsession, while others emerge from the frothy waters of sentimentality and nostalgia as exhausted as most readers are likely to be. Fans of Conroy's florid prose and earnest melodramas are in for a treat. (Aug.)

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Library Journal
"Kids, I'm teaching you to tell a story. It's the most important lesson you'll ever learn," says the protagonist of Conroy's first novel in 14 years (since 1995's Beach Music). Switching between the 1960s and the 1980s, the narrative follows a group of friends whose relationship began in Charleston, SC. The narrator is Leopold Bloom King (his mother was a Joyce scholar), a likable but troubled kid who goes from having one best friend, his brother, to having no friends after a tragedy, to having, suddenly, a gang, of which he is perhaps not the leader but certainly the glue. Conroy continues to demonstrate his skill at presenting the beauty and the ugliness of the South, holding both up for inspection and, at times, admiration. He has not lost his touch for writing stories that are impossible to put down; the fast pace and shifting settings grip the reader even as the story occasionally veers toward the unbelievable. VERDICT Filled with the lyrical, funny, poignant language that is Conroy's birthright, this is a work Conroy fans will love. Libraries should buy multiple copies.—Amy Watts, Univ. of Georgia Lib., Athens
Kirkus Reviews
First novel in 14 years from the gifted spinner of Southern tales (Beach Music, 1995, etc.)-a tail-wagging shaggy dog at turns mock-epic and gothic, beautifully written throughout. The title refers, meaningfully, to a section of Charleston, S.C., and, as with so many Southern tales, one great story begets another and another. This one starts most promisingly: "Nothing happens by accident." Indeed. The Greeks knew that, and so does young Leopold Bloom King. It is on Bloomsday (June 16) 1969 that 18-year-old Leo learns his mother had once been a nun. Along the way, new neighbors appear, drugs make their way into the idyllic landscape and two new orphans turn up "behind the cathedral on Broad Street." The combination of all these disparate elements bears the unmistakable makings of a spirit-shaping saga. The year 1969 is a heady one, of course, with the Summer of Love still fresh in memory, but Altamont on the way and Vietnam all around. Working a paper route along the banks of the Ashley River and discovering the poetry of place ("a freshwater river let mankind drink and be refreshed, but a saltwater river let it return to first things"), Leo gets himself in a heap of trouble, commemorated years later by the tsk-tsking of the locals. But he also finds out something about how things work ("Went out with a lot of women when I was young," says one Nestor; "I could take the assholes, but the heartbreakers could afflict some real damage.") and who makes them work right-or not. Leo's classic coming-of-age tale sports, in the bargain, a king-hell hurricane. Conroy is a natural at weaving great skeins of narrative, and this one will prove a great pleasure to his many fans.

Product Details

Random House Publishing Group
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8.24(w) x 5.24(h) x 1.13(d)

Read an Excerpt

The Mansion on the River

It was my father who called the city the Mansion on the River.
He was talking about Charleston, South Carolina, and he was a native son, peacock proud of a town so pretty it makes your eyes ache with pleasure just to walk down its spellbinding, narrow streets. Charleston was my father's ministry, his hobbyhorse, his quiet obsession, and the great love of his life. His bloodstream lit up my own with a passion for the city that I've never lost nor ever will. I'm Charleston-born, and bred. The city's two rivers, the Ashley and the Cooper, have flooded and shaped all the days of my life on this storied peninsula.
I carry the delicate porcelain beauty of Charleston like the hinged shell of some soft-tissued mollusk. My soul is peninsula-shaped and sun-hardened and river-swollen. The high tides of the city flood my consciousness each day, subject to the whims and harmonies of full moons rising out of the Atlantic. I grow calm when I see the ranks of palmetto trees pulling guard duty on the banks of Colonial Lake or hear the bells of St. Michael's calling cadence in the cicada-filled trees along Meeting Street. Deep in my bones, I knew early that I was one of those incorrigible creatures known as Charlestonians. It comes to me as a surprising form of knowledge that my time in the city is more vocation than gift; it is my destiny, not my choice. I consider it a high privilege to be a native of one of the loveliest American cities, not a high-kicking, glossy, or lipsticked city, not a city with bells on its fingers or brightly painted toenails, but a ruffled, low-slung city, understated and tolerant of nothing mismade or ostentatious. Though Charleston feels a seersuckered, tuxedoed view of itself, it approves of restraint far more than vainglory.
As a boy, in my own backyard I could catch a basket of blue crabs, a string of flounder, a dozen redfish, or a net full of white shrimp. All this I could do in a city enchanting enough to charm cobras out of baskets, one so corniced and filigreed and elaborate that it leaves strangers awed and natives self-satisfied. In its shadows you can find metalwork as delicate as lace and spiral staircases as elaborate as yachts. In the secrecy of its gardens you can discover jasmine and camellias and hundreds of other plants that look embroidered and stolen from the Garden of Eden for the sheer love of richness and the joy of stealing from the gods. In its kitchens, the stoves are lit up in happiness as the lamb is marinating in red wine sauce, vinaigrette is prepared for the salad, crabmeat is anointed with sherry, custards are baked in the oven, and buttermilk biscuits cool on the counter.
Because of its devotional, graceful attraction to food and gardens and architecture, Charleston stands for all the principles that make living well both a civic virtue and a standard. It is a rapturous, defining place to grow up. Everything I reveal to you now will be Charleston-shaped and Charleston-governed, and sometimes even Charleston-ruined. But it is my fault and not the city's that it came close to destroying me. Not everyone responds to beauty in the same way. Though Charleston can do much, it can't always improve on the strangeness of human behavior. But Charleston has a high tolerance for eccentricity and bemusement. There is a tastefulness in its gentility that comes from the knowledge that Charleston is a permanent dimple in the understated skyline, while the rest of us are only visitors.
My father was an immensely gifted science teacher who could make the beach at Sullivan's Island seem like a laboratory created for his own pleasures and devices. He could pick up a starfish, or describe the last excruciating moments of an oyster's life on a flat a hundred yards from where we stood. He made Christmas ornaments out of the braceletlike egg casings of whelks. In my mother's gardens he would show me where the ladybug disguised her eggs beneath the leaves of basil and arugula. In the Congaree Swamp, he discovered a new species of salamander that was named in his honor. There was no butterfly that drifted into our life he could not identify by sight. At night, he would take my brother, Steve, and I out into the boat to the middle of Charleston Harbor and make us memorize the constellations. He treated the stars as though they were love songs written to him by God. With such reverence he would point out Canis Major, the hound of Orion, the Hunter; or Cygnus, the Swan; or Andromeda, the Chained Lady; or Cassiopeia, the Lady in the Chair. My father turned the heavens into a fresh puzzlement of stars: “Ah, look at Jupiter tonight. And red Mars. And isn't Venus fresh on her throne?” A stargazer of the first order, he squealed with pleasure on the moonless nights when the stars winked at him in some mysterious, soul- stirring graffiti of ballet-footed light. He would clap his hands with irresistible joy on a cloudless night when he made every star in the sky a silver dollar in his pocket.
He was more North Star than father. His curiosity about the earth ennobled his every waking moment. His earth was billion-footed, with unseen worlds in every drop of water and every seedling and every blade of grass. The earth was so generous. It was this same earth that he prayed to because it was his synonym for God.
My mother is also a Charlestonian, but her personality strikes far darker harmonies than my father's did. She is God-haunted and pious in a city with enough church spires to have earned the name of the Holy City. She is a scholar of prodigious gifts, who once wrote a critique of Richard Ellman's biography of James Joyce for the New York Review of Books. For most of my life she was a high school principal, and her house felt something like the hallway of a well-run school. Among her students, she could run a fine line between fear and respect. There was not much horseplay or lollygagging about in one of Dr. Lindsay King's schools. I knew kids who were afraid of me just because she was my mother. She almost never wears makeup other than lipstick. Besides her wedding band, the only jewelry she owns is the string of pearls my father bought her for their honeymoon.
Singularly, without artifice or guile, my mother's world seemed disconsolate and tragic before she really knew how tragic life could be. Once she learned that no life could avoid the consequences of tragedy, she soft¬ened into an ascetic's acknowledgment of the illusory nature of life. She became a true believer in the rude awakening.
My older brother, Steve, was her favorite by far, but that seemed only natural to everyone, including me. Steve was blond and athletic and charismatic, and had a natural way about him that appealed to the higher instincts of adults. He could make my mother howl with laughter by telling her a story of one of his teachers or about something he had read in a book; I could not have made my mother smile if I had exchanged arm farts with the Pope in the Sistine Chapel. Because I hero-worshipped Steve, it never occurred to me to be jealous of him. He was both solicitous and protective of me; my natural shyness brought out an instinctive championing of me. The world of children terrified me, and I found it perilous as soon as I was exposed to it. Steve cleared a path for me until he died.
Now, looking back, I think the family suffered a collective nervous breakdown after we buried Steve. His sudden, inexplicable death sent me reeling into a downward spiral that would take me many years to fi ght my way out of and then back into the light. My bashfulness turned to morbidity. My alarm systems all froze up inside me. I went directly from a fearful childhood to a hopeless one without skipping a beat. It was not just the wordless awfulness of losing a brother that unmoored me but the realization that I had never bothered to make any other friends, rather had satisfied myself by being absorbed into that wisecracking circle of girls and boys who found my brother so delicious that his tagalong brother was at least acceptable. After Steve's death, that circle abandoned me before the flowers at his graveside had withered. Like Steve, they were bright and flashy children, and I always felt something like a toadstool placed outside the watch fires of their mysteries and attractions.
So I began the Great Drift when Steve left my family forever. I found myself thoroughly unable to fulfill my enhanced duties as an only child. I could not take a step without incurring my mother's helpless wrath over my raw un-Stephenness, her contempt for my not being blond and acrobatic and a Charleston boy to watch. It never occurred to me that my mother could hold against me my unfitness to transfer myself into the child she had relished and lost. For years, I sank into the unclear depths of myself, and learned with some surprise that their haunted explorations would both thrill and alarm me for the rest of my life. A measurable touch of madness was enough to send my fragile boyhood down the river, and it took some hard labor to get things right again. I could always feel a flinty, unconquerable spirit staring out of the mangroves and the impenetrable rain forests inside me, a spirit who waited with a mineral patience for that day I was to claim myself back because of my own fi erce need of survival. In the worst of times, there was something that lived in isolation and commitment that would come at my bidding and stand beside me, shoulder-to-shoulder, when I decided to face the world on my own terms.
I turned out to be a late bloomer, which I long regretted. My parents suffered needlessly because it took me so long to find my way to a place at their table. But I sighted the early signs of my recovery long before they did. My mother had given up on me at such an early age that a comeback was something she no longer even prayed for in her wildest dreams. Yet in my anonymous and underachieving high school career, I laid the foundation for a strong finish without my mother noticing that I was, at last, up to some good. I had built an impregnable castle of solitude for myself and then set out to bring that castle down, no matter how serious the collateral damage or who might get hurt.
I was eighteen years old and did not have a friend my own age. There wasn't a boy in Charleston who would think about inviting me to a party or to come out to spend the weekend at his family's beach house.
I planned for all that to change. I had decided to become the most interesting boy to ever grow up in Charleston, and I revealed this secret to my parents.
Outside my house in the languid summer air of my eighteenth year, I climbed the magnolia tree nearest to the Ashley River with the agility that constant practice had granted me. From its highest branches, I surveyed my city as it lay simmering in the hot-blooded saps of June while the sun began to set, reddening the vest of cirrus clouds that had gathered along the western horizon. In the other direction, I saw the city of rooftops and columns and gables that was my native land. What I had just promised my parents, I wanted very much for them and for myself. Yet I also wanted it for Charleston. I desired to turn myself into a worthy townsman of such a many-storied city.
Charleston has its own heartbeat and fingerprint, its own mug shots and photo ops and police lineups. It is a city of contrivance, of blueprints; devotion to pattern that is like a bent knee to the nature of beauty itself. I could feel my destiny forming in the leaves high above the city. Like Charleston, I had my alleyways that were dead ends and led to nowhere, but mansions were forming like jewels in my bloodstream. Looking down, I studied the layout of my city, the one that had taught me all the lures of attractiveness, yet made me suspicious of the showy or the makeshift. I turned to the stars and was about to make a bad throw of the dice and try to predict the future, but stopped myself in time.
A boy stopped in time, in a city of amber-colored life that possessed the glamour forbidden to a lesser angel.

From the Hardcover edition.

Meet the Author

Pat Conroy (1945–2016) was the author of The Boo, The Water Is Wide, The Great Santini, The Lords of Discipline, The Prince of Tides, Beach Music, The Pat Conroy Cookbook: Recipes of My Life, My Losing Season, South of Broad, My Reading Life, and The Death of Santini.

From the Hardcover edition.

Brief Biography

San Francisco and South Carolina
Date of Birth:
October 26, 1945
Place of Birth:
Atlanta, Georgia
B.A.,The Citadel, 1967

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South of Broad 3.7 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 739 reviews.
Jenk88 More than 1 year ago
SOUTH OF BROAD is set in contemporary Charleston, and follows the life of Leo King and his handful of best friends through the latter half of the last century, roughly the late sixties till the ninties. Like all Conroy novels, this one is full of drama, action and breath-taking prose - no other living southern writer compares. It is shorter and faster moving than Prince of Tides or Beach Music, and offers a realistic portrayal of American Catholicism rare in recent literature, all clothed in typical smart-ass Conroy humor.
Valentine58 More than 1 year ago
I picked the book up on Friday and had a hard time putting it down! The characters, Charleston, friendships all of it was so wonderfully written. The characters were so well detailed right down to emotions that I found myself falling in love with them. It was especially heartbreaking reading about the flooding. Jamestown, Silvercreek are was flooded here in NY and that made it all the more real. I loved the characters and how their lives intertwined through the years and came back full circle. I have loaned it to a friend and raved about it to anyone who would listen. I plan to read it a second time.
AshALee More than 1 year ago
This will probably be one of my hardest reviews to write for the simple fact that nothing I write can do this novel justice. Every emotion possible was covered in this book, and for me felt deeply: heartbreak, love, second chances, anguish, loss, sympathy, agony, joy, lust, anger, pride and hurt. I know I'm particularly susceptible to feeling as if I'm there in many of the novels I read but I think I can say with certainty that this was one of the most evocative pieces of work I've ever read and I now understand the editor's note in the front of the advanced copy sent to me. This is the first novel Mr. Conroy has published in 14 years and I can see why so many were anxiously awaiting his next. Never having read his work before, I'm loathe to do so if this doesn't exceed hopes and expectations piled upon each other for this successor to his previous novels. Initially I was intimidated by the florid prose in this very long novel (512 pages). By page 12, I was ready to set it to the side. By page 20, I was sucked in and couldn't put the book down. Not for the sake of being redundant, but the story within the pages tapped into my emotional reserve, and I cried, laughed, gasped, shuddered, and smiled at many, many points within the pages. Nothing of the story was predictable, beyond the expectation of some overwhelming incident lying in wait. In that, South of Broad didn't disappoint. Nor in anything else actually. The tales within the plot tied up seamlessly, even one that was an integral part of the story but not expected to be given a resolution or understanding, and my heart broke for several characters many times over. The ending left me a little drained, and hoping the best for the characters within the book, and not a little disappointment that this which has kept me compelled all weekend has drawn to a close. I fell a little bit in love with the protagonist of the story and would love to see from his perspective again someday. This is truly a must read and one of the most compelling stories I've ever read.
Oscar_Aguilar More than 1 year ago
I read this new Conroy novel and must say that it is simply beautiful from the first line. The story, set in the late sixties till the nineties, mostly in Charleston, is centered on the life of Leo King. Born into a devout Catholic family, Leo is haunted by his brother's suicide, and trying to salvage a ruined adolescence with the help of a handful of best friends, who have their own histories and ghosts to deal with. Conroy often writes of salvation through friendship, and this is his strongest novel yet on the subject. It is also an unexpectedly Catholic novel, and at base, a very devout one. The South, and the Low Country in particular, are exalted, beloved, and cherished in prose so fine it breaks your heart. I don't want to spoil the story in any way, but have to say that the last pages did that thing that modern novels seem incapable of doing these days: it lifted my heart, ending on just the loveliest, most affirming word (won't say what.) I Love Yous Are for White People is the only other book that has touched me this deeply this year. I recommend reading both wholeheartedly.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
OK, maybe I just don't "get it", but I'm trying very hard to keep reading this book. I'm maybe a quarter of the way through it and I just cannot get into it. It's not pulling me in at all. The characters seem totally unbelievable to me. What kids who were teens in the late 60's actually talked and acted that way? I'm trying to finish this book because of the other really great reviews, but I have to force myself to pick it up.
tacomapat More than 1 year ago
I've read all of Pat Conroy's books, except for The Boo; I love Pat Conroy's books. I certainly don't hold my breath waiting for his next book to come out, because there have been many years between the last three books. I was delighted to hear that a new book was being released this summer and I bought it immediately. However, I cannot say I enjoyed the book. The story line was implausible to me and I felt it was all over the place and not at all cohesive. Some of the story lines were just too convenient and not at all believable. Many questions were left unanswered.
gvanman More than 1 year ago
I've been a fan of Pat Conroy for a very long time. For me, South of Broad failed to deliver on Conroy's ability to tell a great story or generate a quest to keep my nose buried in the book until I was finished. Using Charleston as the setting for the story seemed to be a simple choice for Conroy, since it's the setting for his own life's story. But this "Big Chill" type of narrative was hollow and a bit too cutesy for me. Each of the main characters spoke with the same snippy, sarcastic, and too clever dialogue to be believable. Each time the old friends were all in the same room, you could anticipate the bantering, with no real differentiation between them. There was nothing extraordinary in terms of suspense or anticipation, except that I kept wondering when I'd get through the book. Pretty weak from a writer that's offered much over the years.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Pat Conroy's prose is as lush as ever, but the sad and tired caricatures of Southern gentry and rednecks who populate this book are a disservice to Conroy and the city he obviously loves so much. Even the twin horrors of child molestation and pedophilia lose any possible value as a plot device, becoming both diminished and predictable when inflicted upon nearly every major character. Where was the editor? Do yourself a favor -- skip the disturbing melodrama taking place South of Broad and just re-read The Prince of Tides.
shannonWA More than 1 year ago
Pat Conroy has been my favorite all-time author for many years. No one waited for another novel with as much anticipation than I! Then I got the book and was very disappointed. very. the characters were card-boardy, stilted dialog.. dumb book. If it had been any other author, I would have stopped reading after 20 pages. nothing could be as disappointing to me except finding out that there is no Santa Claus.
kren250 More than 1 year ago
South of Broad centers around Leo King, otherwise known as "Toad' by his friends and enemies alike. Part of the book is set when "Toad" is in his late teens, and he's had a rough life. A family tragedy has caused a huge rift in his family, and caused him to have a mental breakdown. The summer before his senior year of high school he makes an eccentric group of friends, and these friends will be close to him into adult hood. These friends bring their own sets of troubles and problems. I was so excited to get my hands on an ARC of this book. I loved both The Prince of Tides and Beach Music; and was thrilled to see that Conroy had written another novel. Unfortunately, I found this book very disappointing. I'm not sure if it's just that my tastes have changed in the years since he's last published a novel, or if this book truly isn't that good. Don't get be wrong, I did love a few things about it. Some of the writing is beautiful, especially when he describes Charleston and South Carolina. Wonderful imagery of the ocean, tides, beaches. But the plot is so predictable and cliched. You can seen any "secrets" coming way before they are revealed, including the big secret at the end which was probably just about the biggest cliche in the whole book. Then there's the dialogue, which is melodramatic and "cutesy" to the point of being unbelievable (who talks that way in real life??). And the do-gooder main character, who is probably the most unrealistic teen age boy I've ever read about. Also, some of the characters are so stereotypical they are almost laughable: the flamboyant gay, the so-awful-and-insane-it's-cartoonish bad guy, and the token black couple with their "ghetto" speak. Plus, there were a few scenes that were so ridiculous they are laughable. For instance, a scene where adults in their 30s reinact a high school pep ralley, complete with cheers. Vomit inducing. All in all, I'm glad I read the book since I'm sure many will love it and it will be greatly hyped. But, for those who fell in love with his earlier books, it may end being a disappointment like it was for me.
fabian-archer More than 1 year ago
I've enjoyed Mr. Conroy's previous books, but this one is too long and tedious and the characters are unbelievable; they never seem to get out of their high school stage. It's like a bad B movie of the 40s or 50s, and the lead character, in this case Leo, says - Let's put on a show. Am also very tired of Conroy putting his excruciating childhood into every book. Move on. Get over it.
FernLily More than 1 year ago
I found this book quite good reading, only took me 2 days to finish. Once I started it I couldn't put it down. The story was very interesting, probably because I could remember those years myself. I particularly liked the relationship between the characters, impressed by the loyalty they had to each other, and the forgiveness of each others faults.
iowagirlLB More than 1 year ago
I feel almost sacreligious saying it, considering the literary reputation of the author, but "South of Broad" might actually be the worst book I have ever read. While every once in awhile there was a lyrical Conroy-esque passage, it wasn't enough to save the story. The characters were more like caricatures: Rich guy! Rich girl! Flamboyant gay guy! Black guy! Poor mountain person! Promiscuous, tortured beauty! Jock girl! Honorable nerd! Mentally ill girl! I was never sure what the focus of the book was, because so many "issues" were included: racism! classism! religion! incest! homophobia! I'm surprised one of the characters didn't stand up and shout "Save the Whales!" at some point. But as overwrought as the plot was (I forgot to mention the murderous stalker and the hurricane), the absolute worst thing about this book was the dialogue. Reading it was so uncomfortable. The characters were supposed to be deeply connected, yet most of their conversations were sarcastic, superficial, or sexually inappropriate. Almost all of the dialogue was stilted; the conversational sections were forced and unrealistic. I slogged through to the end because I thought "South of Broad" might have some redeeming points by then. It didn't.
StylinSixty More than 1 year ago
Pat Conroy has long been one of my favorite authors and this wonderful story of a group of unlikely friends is a good example of why I love to get lost in the world shows me. His love affair with words allows the reader to see and taste and feel Charleston, South Carolina, in her beauty, her dank humidity, her elegance and her mean moods. Mr. Conroy's characters are flawed, as we all are, and evil gets it's due, but, on the whole this is a very sympathetic group from diverse backgrounds who are brought together by one very fine fellow. Throw in murder most foul and a road trip to San Francisco and it is a wholly satisfying story and I only wish Mr. Conroy would write more....there is far too much time between books.
BookLover526 More than 1 year ago
This is one of the worst books I have ever read. I loved "Prince of Tides", but my headline says it all - Conroy's writing style has gone south. The writing is dreadful, cliched and in tone - for lack of a better word - just plain icky. His portrait of the one gay character is so unoriginal and cardboard, if I didn't know better, I'd have thought he was writing a parody. And parts of the book are downright stupid. After a major hurricane, workers miraculosly appear 3 days after to repair the homes of the narrators' friends. I can tell you from experience with Hurricane Wilma that not even divine intersession could accomplish repairs 3 days after an event of that nature. Quite frankly, I cannot figure out why so many reviewers gave this book 3 and 4 stars, but evidently they do no know what good literature is.
pln56 More than 1 year ago
I had such high hopes for this book and was extremely let down. It was long and drawn out, and I didn't care for the characters. I hoped it would get better by the middle, but that was wishful thinking. I had to force myself to finish reading it. I sure hope Mr. Conroy redeems himself with his next novel.
becksb More than 1 year ago
The opening pages of South of Broad are a hymn to the city of Charleston; I read them with awe at the power of Conroy's writing. His novels are not easy reads: with their foul language, strong sexuality, tragedy, and often brutality, they are emotionally draining. But they're excelleent, and extremly moving. South of Broad affirms friendship. We watch as Leo, the narrator, brings together an unlikely group at a 1969 party: the twins, the orphans, members of the Charleston artistocracy, and the black co-captain of the high school football team. Their frienship begins that night, and is even stronger twenty years later, As we get to know these characters, we come to care about them, flawed and wounded as they all are. Conroy's mastery with language makes that happen. Leo and his unexpected friends will be with me for a long time. So will Charleston, both north and south of Broad.
SC2NY More than 1 year ago
Conroy has created another gem. As a displaced resident of the Charleston-area, I have to confess a touch of partiality, but regardless of your familiarity with the Lowcountry, South of Broad will take you through every emotion. I laughed; I teared up; I was enraged; I longed for home. Conroy uses his trademark transitions from present to past to give the reader "the whole story." Several tragic endings mark the novel's pages, and I can't say the ending is happy. But it is a satisfying read. (Note of Interest: In Charleston, people who live South of Broad are also referred to as "S.O.B.s". If you live slightly north of Broad, you're just a "S.N.O.B.")
CarolinaCM More than 1 year ago
I savored this book, instead of plowing through it like I did with his Beach Music....my favorite. I did not want the book to end. From the first page, as Leo goes about his paper route, with detailed description of the beauty of Charleston and it's people, I knew this would be no disappointment. The characters were unique,and you were really taken back to that time, the civil rights era, when young people were both innocent and the products of their rightous parents. I could have done without the excursion to California, but thankfully we were soon back in Charleston. Mr.Conroy does not sugar-coat the ugliness in life and some if its characters, but that is not what you are left with inside. You are left with a new understanding of the struggles of people who are "different" and life-long friendship, and of course, the love of Charleston. Please, Mr. Conroy, don't let us wait another fourteen years!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This is a book that you can't put down and has surprises, great background and great characters. I bought this book for friends for Christmas and shared my copy with many. Loved the book and didn't want it end.
councilwoman More than 1 year ago
I anxiously awaited the delivery of this book, expecting nothing less than a Conroy page turner I was not disappointed. From the first intro of characters I was captivated. To say you had me at "hello" is quite the understatement. I read to learn, to enjoy and to be entertained and Pat Conroy accomplished all of this in South of Broad. I think myself intelligent until I read a Conroy book to find words I've never seen or heard, fortunately not many but there were more than a few. At times I found myself joined at the hip with a few characters and far removed from others but totally enthralled to the end. Thank you Mr. Conroy for writing another spectacular book that I have already shared with a dozen or so friends.
CrisReads More than 1 year ago
I have read Pat Conroy for years and consider him one of my favorite contemporary writers. This novel didn't stack up to my expectations in regards to character development. The writing style is classic Conroy and one that I fully enjoyed. That being said, the plot was exciting at times but became predictable and a bit corny or cliche' toward the end. Overall, it is worth reading but I would not place it at the top of my bookshelf.
mlg113 More than 1 year ago
Very well written. Suspenseful and sometimes touching. Conroy has conjured up the most disturbed people imaginable and put them all in one school district. I found the plot just too far fetched and the characters over the top. I finished it but don't think I am healthier for the experience.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
The characters, the intensity of the story and the lavish description of the beautiful city creates a memorable read from the opening sentence. Pat Conroy has the ability to transport the reader to a place which not only captivates the mind but fills the heart with the passion that the characters share throughout their lives as friends. A very grown up book that connects people on a very special level, at a special time, in a special place.
Zoe-Marley More than 1 year ago
I think I loved it because I could relate to growing up in the South in the late 60's. Beginning of integration and interaction with all your "best friends" from high school and what happened to them and how we all evolved into the adults we are today. The story telling withing the story telling is supburb.