Best 3266 quotes in «sound quotes» category

You want an idea that not many other people are working on, and it's okay if it doesn't sound big at first.

You wanted happiness, I can’t blame you for that, and maybe a mouth sounds idiotic when it blathers on about joy but tell me you love this, tell me you’re not miserable.

You want to cry aloud for your mistakes. But to tell the truth the world doesn't need any more of that sound.

You want a hero in the music world? James Brown. He brought a feeling to music without really using words. He's just famous for his sound.

You…you need to move on,” I managed. Yes, that was a sound reason. “You need to find someone else. You know I don’t—that I can’t. Well, you know. You’re wasting your time with me.” He remained firm. “It’s my time to waste.

After only a week on the road, I am changed. It’s hard for me to stay too long at a diner or coffee shop. I hear so much now. The air conditioners, dishwashers, coffee machines, and restroom hand dryers rage like an angry electric army.

A great voice is a unique instrument, not to sound like another instrument, but to be played like one.

A great thunderstorm of sound gushed from the walls. Music bombarded him at such an immense volume that his bones were almost shaken from their tendons; he felt his jaw vibrate, his eyes wobble in his head.

Alice's voice rang out confidently from the back of the room. "Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright..." Her rendition was flawless: clear, true notes strung together in a necklace of sound, a gift for everyone in the room to wear.

All of the songs we have ever heard and all we will ever hear are made of twelve simple notes. Complexity comes when these notes are put together in an infinite number of combinations and then played slower or faster, repeated or not. Music is highly organized sound. It is a language we learn without even realizing it. We hear our first song and decipher its repetitions, its orderliness. The song teaches us what to expect and when to expect it. We learn to associate low notes with sadness and high ones with pep. Soon, we hear a brand-new song and its notes collide with our memories of past times. We have expectations for this new song. Even if we don’t entirely know what is coming next, our instincts tell us where the song might take us, and what memories it might unearth.

A mist crept into the valley—how could this be, by the light of the climbing sun? It drifted over the form in the grass, nearly obscuring it, seeming to draw all sound into itself. I thought I might burst from the strain of that silence... until a single sound shattered it: The gasp of an indrawn breath.

Always lend a helping hand, for one day- YOU might be the one reaching for it!

And the rain drops kept falling like the sweetest music leaving tears on the glass, which is what music does to me most of the time but silence too. and rain.

And in her ears the little Seashells, the thimble radios tamped tight, and an electronic ocean of sound, of music and talk and music and talk coming in, coming in on the shore of her unsleeping mind. The room was indeed empty. Every night the waves came in and bore her off on their great tides of sound, floating her, wide-eyed, toward morning. There had been no night in the last two years that Mildred had not swum that sea, had not gladly gone down in it for the third time.

Be as fierce as a lion. Let the world hear you roar.

...and you will hold me with your wondering eyes in the serenity of purest mind at the dreams edge of my quiet golden shores accompanied by the melodies of emerald blue rippling waves where I will always remain voicing harmony in the over the rainbow soothing memories of your heart...

Anna's voice wasn't a beautiful voice - rough edged and sorrowful, a bit used, somehow male and female at once. Yet it had more vibrancy to it than most Danish voices, which were often thin and white and too pretty to trigger a shiver. Anna's voice had the heat of the south; it warmed Einar, as if her throat were read with coals.

A sound idea is a form of energy. It can not be destroyed. It evolves from inspiration, to a function of preparation, then determination - till the ideator's dream becomes actualized in real life At the very least, success is a second iteration of the original, unscripted Idea So your idea refinement process needs to be test-driven Test Determine on time if investment in terms of effort and time is worth it Work Smart Fail early, fail often, Success lies on the paths yet to be treaded, Open your mind, Think Disruption, Be Flexible Be AGILE I think this is an idea worth sharing

Authenticity distinguishes between a hobby and a calling. A hobby is something you like to do when you can. A calling is something that won’t wait. There is a different sound to one versus the other. Your hobby brings you joy but it is not a priority. Your calling is impolite and disruptive and doesn’t care whether it’s a good time or not.

Beloved his harp cries out in the night an hour my body does shift, the jerk loves to open me up while laughter from Christ like he’s drunk. Shall I stare at her the jumping let live? My wants are my needs so within. The take gives.

Be music always. Keep changing the keys, tones, pitch, and volume of each of the songs you create along your life's journey and play on.

Can you start a movement in your land that will encourage men and women to begin to think, to begin to make sound judgment and informed decisions? Will you bring illumination to your people? Will you facilitate understanding amidst those whom you live with? The earth is crying for people who make sound judgment and informed decisions

Certain voices heard are heard not because they are phonetic... But, from one soul they head, to another, in the form of magic. (Poem: When, When a not, Book: Ginger and Honey)

Contrasts The windows of my poetry are wide open on the boulevards and in the shop windows Shine The precious stones of light Listen to the violins of the limousines and the xylophones of the linotypes The sketcher washes with the hand-towel of the sky All is color spots And the hats of the women passing by are comets in the conflagration of the evening Unity There's no more unity All the clocks now read midnight after being set back ten minutes There's no more time. There's no more money. In the Chamber They are spoiling the marvelous elements of raw material ("Contrasts")

Dark night knows what full moon requires When all your love my heart acquires Celestial bodies no more faded Life makes sound; silence invaded

Do not confuse reasons which sound good with good, sound reasons.

Dave once asked me what blind people dream about. Mostly in sound and feeling, I replied. At night I fall in love with a voice, and then wake to a feeling of physical loss. Sometimes I close my eyes to a chorus of “Happy Birthday!” The smell of cake and the sound of feet under the table. I awake in a body that’s too big. I also dream in motion and sensation. My father’s boat and the snore of the mast; the rough fabric of the safety harness and the rip of Velcro. The sun on my legs. And endless stretch of water impossible to imagine.

Emotional illiterates, who don’t recognize the sound of a broken heart, will never be able to hear the subtle vibrations of love reverberating through the rustling flora of life. ("Love as dizzy as a cathedral”)

Do not trap yourself into an owl's hooting sound where sad nights linger through the blackness of a hound

Each and every one of us was created to carry out justice, judgment, truth and equity on the earth. It could be in different spheres of life, in various professions or in diverse gifting. But the mandate is clear, his nature must be reflected on the earth. If he is a God of justice, people must see his justice on earth. If he is a God of sound judgment, that sound mind must be revealed in people who identify themselves with him on daily basis. If God is truth, that truth must reign supreme on the earth even as he reigns over the universe. If fairness, impartiality, equity, are his essence, that should become dominant in any society

Echo of the waves appears in the sky, their lights reflected in your eyes. I'm back in our world and happy again. The sound of your voice, compassionate embrace... The power in your touch, serenity of stride... The beating of your heart calms down my presence, gracing with eternal peace of mind... Bathing in the sunshine of your arms I'm deeply aware of the melodic stream that has no language...gliding beneath the quiet Heaven of your eyes...

Every spark returns to darkness. Every sound returns to silence. Every flower returns to sleep with the earth. The journey of the sun and moon is predictable. But yours, is your ultimate art.

Every men create some sound. Be a melody in this universe not a noise! If you become a melody, the whole universe will listen to you!

Every step you take, every breath, every conversation, your calling is center stage. There is no longer a piece here and a piece there, but there is wholeness. The sound of your voice and the sound of your life have come together.

Fight the good fight of faith; ignore all callings of doubt regardless of how loud they sound. Arm yourself always against disappointments by planning and preparing very well.

Far from such din, when blessed silence returns, I can listen to the butterflies that flutter inside my head. To hear them, one must be calm and pay close attention, for their wingbeats are barely audible. Loud breathing is enough to drown them out. This is astonishing: my hearing does not improve, yet I hear them better and better. I must have butterfly hearing.

For me, a hearty laugh is one of the most beautiful sounds in the world. It's a way of life!

Form itself, even if completely abstract ... has its own inner sound.

For once I want the beat louder than my mind.

Guglielmo Marconi, the inventor of radio, believed that sound waves never completely die away, that they persist, fainter and fainter, masked by the day-to-day noise of the world. Marconi thought that if he could only invent a microphone powerful enough, he would be able to listen to ancient times.

Give me something in between the spectrums of light, darkness and sound and most days I will create something out of it for you.

His whisper was the softest sound I ever knew, which seemed to bring the loudest heartbeat.

He had laid his head back until his scalp had contacted his spine, that far back, and opened his throat, and a sound rose in the auditorium like a wind coming from all four directions, low and terrifying, rumbling up from the ground beneath the floor, and it gathered into a roar that sucked at the hearing itself, and coalesced into a voice that penetrated into the sinuses, and finally into the very minds of those hearing it, taking itself higher and higher, more and more awful and beautiful, the originating ideal of all such sounds ever made, of the foghorn and the ship's horn, the locomotive's lonesome whistle, of opera singing and the music of flutes and the continuous moaning of bagpipes. And suddenly it all went black. And the time was gone forever.

He's a funny one," said Ida. "Here's how he sound." She pursed her lips and, expertly, imitated the red-winged blackbird's call: not the liquid piping of the wood thrush, which dipped down into the dry tchh tchh tchh of the cricket's birr and up again in delerious, sobbing trills; not the clear, three-note whistle of the chickadee or even the blue jay's rough cry, which was like a rusty gate creaking. This was an abrupt, whirring, unfamiliar cry, a scream of warning -congeree!- which choked itself off on a subdued, fluting note.

He tongue swiped my sex like was licking the frosting off a cupcake. I called out to heaven again. . . . My sounds encouraged him to torture me.

His voice was a deep and quiet rumble. It made me think of a freshly tuned tractor engine.. He didn't sound illiterate, but he didn't sound educated. In his speech as in so many other things, he was a mystery. Mostly it was his eyes that troubled me - a kind of peaceful absence in them, as if he were floating far, far away.

He is deaf, and keen to accept, any economical operation, that will correct his situation. He visited the doctor best, and started talking on subject, like the after-effects, and if any threats. The doctor medically checked, and asked him what he expects? He expressed, he wants to be addressed- in words, and not in signs. And how keen he is, to have his ears listening. He wants to listen the echo of, sun-set over that crimson dawn. He is keen to know, the sound of, a blooming rose. He wants to know what it sounds like, when a seedling grows. But Doctor- if you say: You are incapable, then I better get away, for then there is- nothing worth to be heard, in your seemingly wordy world.

Hell, Hell—" He couldn't believe that a word with so musical a ring could be the name of something bad.

He sat beside the window in the dark, with his eyes closed. Hearing to the sound of the rain. The whisky in his glass burnt his throat, while the smoke of his cigarette filled his lungs and the fire inside his heart consumed his soul slowly.

Honoring your feelings awakens your soul. Feelings keep you awake. And it is from that awake place, that sound, that you build your life.