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
|Publisher:||Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group|
|Product dimensions:||6.50(w) x 9.30(h) x 1.40(d)|
About the Author
Hometown:San Francisco and South Carolina
Date of Birth:October 26, 1945
Place of Birth:Atlanta, Georgia
Education:B.A.,The Citadel, 1967
Read an Excerpt
PrologueThe Mansion on the RiverIt 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.
Reading Group Guide
1. James Joyce’s Ulysses is brought up several times in South of Broad— Leo’s mother is a top James Joyce scholar and she named both her sons after Ulysses’s main characters. What’s the signifi cance of this? Why did Conroy choose Ulysses to be the all-consuming passion of Leo’s mother?
2. Leo’s mother doesn’t exactly approve of his friendships with Starla, Niles, Sheba, and Trevor, yet without her intervention, it’s unlikely he would have met and befriended any of these characters. What do you make of this?
3. Leo is described as being a plain boy from the very start of the novel and his unfortunate nickname is the Toad. Fraser, too, is less than beautiful—she is defi ned by her failure to be fully feminine, by her broad shoulders and muscular limbs. Other characters, such as Stephen, Sheba, Trevor, Molly, and Chad, are described by their physical beauty. What role does beauty play in the book? How are the beautiful characters different from the homely ones?
4. Leo realizes that he never would have inherited “the best house in Charleston” if he had revealed the identity of the boy who made him carry cocaine. Leo’s great good fortune was the result of sacrifi ce. Where else do we see this in the book?
5. One of the book’s most memorable images is the “crying” smiley face that Trevor and Sheba’s father uses as his calling card. How do you interpret this symbol and its prevalence in the book?
6. Leo bonds with his friends when there is almost a race riot on the fi rst day of their senior year of high school. By working together, Leo and the other students manage to prevent violence. Revisit this scene. What does it reveal about the characters and their relationships with one another?
7. Leo is an extremely successful matchmaker for everyone except himself. While Fraser and Niles and Ike and Betty have blissfully happy marriages, Leo’s marriage to Starla is unbearably painful for both of them. Why does Leo fail so badly in choosing his own wife?
8. Some of the book’s characters are moored in the past: Chad can’t overcome his father’s legacy, Molly is incapable of imagining a life without Chadworth Rutledge X, and Starla can’t conquer her hellish childhood. Why, do you think, are some characters able to grow beyond their backgrounds and others aren’t?
9. The fraught scene at the beginning of the novel in which Leo’s family lunches with Chad’s and Molly’s families is called to mind at the end of the novel when these same characters reunite under different circumstances. This time they are trying to weather Hurricane Hugo in Fraser and Niles’s house. How has the dynamic between these characters changed since their fi rst lunch together? Who has changed the most?
10. Hurricane Hugo transforms the Charleston that Leo loves into a chaotic, dirty mess, practically destroying his childhood home. The storm comes after Sheba’s murder and before the terrible revelation that Stephen was raped by Monsignor Max. What does the storm symbolize?
11. Sheba and Trevor’s father seems almost superhuman—he manages to escape detection for decades and attacks his children and their friends at will. Ultimately, though, he is brought down, not by any of the characters, but by the viciousness of Hurricane Hugo. Why did Conroy make the choice to end this character’s life with a force of nature?
12. Charleston is practically a living and breathing entity in the book. Which character most closely echoes the “soul” of the city? 13. What’s the signifi cance of the dolphin that Leo and Molly save? 14. Leo’s mother is deeply critical of Leo and his friends at the beginning of the novel, but by the end of the novel she and Leo seem to have developed a deep and loving relationship. What has changed?
13. Acting is a prevalent theme in this book—from Sheba’s movie star fame to her father’s ability to change his identity at will. At the end of the book, Leo identifi es himself as the “greatest actor of them all.” How do you interpret this? Do you agree with Leo? Does this affect your reading of the book?
14. Were you surprised that Molly stayed with Chad? Do you think she would be happier with Leo?
15. At the end of the novel, Leo tells us that Chad visited him every day while he was in the hospital. Does this change your understanding of Chad? How?
16. In South of Broad, the two characters most associated with the Church are very different from one another. On the one hand there is Leo’s mother—a woman who, despite a prickly exterior, is deeply pious; and on the other hand there is Monsignor Max—a charismatic man who uses religion to excuse reprehensible behavior. What is Conroy trying to say about religion?
17. Do you think the revelation that Stephen was sexually abused brings any closure to Leo?
18. We don’t find out how Leo’s mother reacts to the news that Monsignor Max terrorized her son Stephen and drove him to suicide. Do you think this terrible news would have affected her religious devotion or her decision to reenter the convent?