Pat Conroy, one of the best American authors to have ever penned a word, died yesterday. So often did I read his books when I was younger that I imagined grooves were created in my mind, ones fill with lyrical prose, and places brought to life, whispering their presence long after the book was closed. Whether it was in “Prince of Tides,” or “Beach Music,” Conroy knew how to create that echo of resemblance to things both real and imagined, and a desire to live in those worlds. The world has lost something mystical with his passing.