Best 3266 quotes in «sound quotes» category

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 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'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 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.

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

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

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.

How I wish I was like the water, Flowing so freely with every drop Let my every emotion wonder, No need to start, nor even stop How I wish I was like the fire, Burning with every flame up Leaving a trace of hot desire As a Phoenix raises its' wings up How I wish I was like the earth, Raising each flower from the ground Seeing the beauty of death and birth And then returning to the ground How I wish I was like the wind, Hearing each whisper, sound and thought A lonesome and wandering little wind, Shattering all that has been sought Oh, how I wish I was where you are, Not separated by empty space, so far It seems like we're galaxies apart, But we find hope within our heart And how I wish I was all of the above, So I can come below and yet forget, The beauty of angels which come down like a dove And demons who love with no regret.

How do you know when it's me?" "Your footsteps are apologetic?" "What does that mean?" She turned, smiling wiping her hands on her long, black skirt. "It doesn't mean anything," she said. "Everybody else here just does what they want to do and doesn't think twice about it. But you're never sure.

If he is a God of sound judgment, that sound mind must be revealed in people who identify themselves with him on daily basis

I could feel everything. From the tragic cellos, to the tender sounds of the piano giving awe to my touch. My body slowly swayed to the sweet feel of the air sweeping over me. I felt myself being taken away as the hearts of my fans soared with me.

I know there is a moment when sound slips down the torn lining of itself into silence, is carried unheard and secret in its own pocket. But the crimson birds could find no such escape, no means of slipping beyond themselves between the cracks of color and song to a white undiscovered silence.

If I was asked to write a poem about her. Every word I use would end up, being her name. And it would still sound so beautiful and breathtaking to me in the end.

If we would think-to-speak at an adaptive, and comprehensible ear-speed of human sound, we might vastly hear so much more, than the expensive sensory gift of ocular attention, could afford.

In a real poem a sound does not swallow a letter, but a letter swallows a sound.

I'm all these words, all these strangers, this dust of words, with no ground for their settling, no sky for their dispersing, coming together to say, fleeing one another to say, that I am they, all of them, those that merge, those that part, those that never meet, and nothing else, yes, something else, that I'm something quite different, a quite different thing, a wordless thing in an empty place, a hard shut dry cold black place, where nothing stirs, nothing speaks, and that I listen, and that I seek, like a caged beast born of caged beasts born of caged beasts born of caged beasts born in a cage and dead in a cage, born and then dead, born in a cage and then dead in a cage, in a word like a beast, in one of their words, like such a beast, and that I seek, like such a beast, with my little strength, such a beast, with nothing of its species left but fear and fury, no, the fury is past, nothing but fear, nothing of all its due but fear centupled, fear of its shadow, no, blind from birth, of sound then, if you like, we'll have that, one must have something, it's a pity, but there it is, fear of sound, fear of sounds, the sounds of beasts, the sounds of men, sounds in the daytime and sounds at night, that's enough, fear of sounds all sounds, more or less, more or less fear, all sounds, there's only one, continuous, day and night, what is it, it's steps coming and going, it's voices speaking for a moment, it's bodies groping their way, it's the air, it's things, it's the air among the things, that's enough, that I seek, like it, no, not like it, like me, in my own way, what am I saying, after my fashion, that I seek, what do I seek now, what it is, it must be that, it can only be that, what it is, what it can be, what what can be, what I seek, no, what I hear, I hear them, now it comes back to me, they say I seek what it is I hear, I hear them, now it comes back to me, what it can possibly be, and where it can possibly come from, since all is silent here, and the walls thick, and how I manage, without feeling an ear on me, or a head, or a body, or a soul, how I manage, to do what, how I manage, it's not clear, dear dear, you say it's not clear, something is wanting to make it clear, I'll seek, what is wanting, to make everything clear, I'm always seeking something, it's tiring in the end, and it's only the beginning.

I paid the taxi driver, got out with my suitcase, surveyed my surroundings, and just as I was turning to ask the driver something or get back into the taxi and return forthwith to Chillán and then to Santiago, it sped off without warning, as if the somewhat ominous solitude of the place had unleashed atavistic fears in the driver's mind. For a moment I too was afraid. I must have been a sorry sight standing there helplessly with my suitcase from the seminary, holding a copy of Farewell's Anthology in one hand. Some birds flew out from behind a clump of trees. They seemed to be screaming the name of that forsaken village, Querquén, but they also seemed to be enquiring who: quién, quién, quién. I said a hasty prayer and headed for a wooden bench, there to recover a composure more in keeping with what I was, or what at the time I considered myself to be. Our Lady, do not abandon your servant, I murmured, while the black birds, about twenty-five centimetres in length, cried quién, quién, quién. Our Lady of Lourdes, do not abandon your poor priest, I murmured, while other birds, about ten centimetres long, brown in colour, or brownish, rather, with white breasts, called out, but not as loudly, quién, quién, quién, Our Lady of Suffering, Our Lady of Insight, Our Lady of Poetry, do not leave your devoted subject at the mercy of the elements, I murmured, while several tiny birds, magenta, black, fuchsia, yellow and blue in colour, wailed quién, quién, quién, at which point a cold wind sprang up suddenly, chilling me to the bone.

In your most desperate moments where you crawl on the ground like worms, sometimes you suddenly hear the voice of a savior, the voice of the Music which immediately carries you away to the stars!

I recently cleared up my Electromagnetic Hypersensitivity (EHS). The condition is real, it has a sound foundation as to why it occurs in the human, and can be cleared up by taking the appropriate steps.

I see you better in music, I hear you better in wind, I feel you more in a flooding moonlight, that understands nothing, but darkness and silence.

It is the kind of glassy night when sound travels miles across the surface of the sea; the air a crystal wineglass, susceptible to the slightest flick of a fingertip.

Love is inaudible—until you hear it. And once you do, you’ll never forget the sound of her voice.

It was cold and barren. It was no longer the view that I remembered. The sunshine of her presence was far from me. The charm of her voice no longer murmured in my ear.

I woke up early and took the first train to take me away from the city. The noise and all its people. I was alone on the train and had no idea where I was going, and that’s why I went there. Two hours later we arrived in a small town, one of those towns with one single coffee shop and where everyone knows each other’s name. I walked for a while until I found the water, the most peaceful place I know. There I sat and stayed the whole day, with nothing and everything on my mind, cleaning my head. Silence, I learned, is some times the most beautiful sound.

Light sees the whole world with one eye, sound hears the whole universe with one ear.

It’s not enough to hear someone else’s voice or to sing someone else’s song or to play the note that you heard someone else play. I had to tune into my sound and by doing so, I have recovered not only the sound of my voice but the sound of my life.

I wanted to scream as I stood there, my toes hanging over the edge of the dock. I wanted to let a gut-wrenching howl rip from my disfigured throat toward those clouded skies. I wanted to say every swear word my mother had ever taught me not to say. I would have settled for a cut-off whimper, just as long as some kind of sound came from my lips.

I want to say more, but don't know what the words are supposed to be. I feel such a tenderness for these vulnerable night-time conversations, the way words take a different shape in the air when there's no light in the room.

Light is born in darkness. Sound is born in silence. Wind is born in stillness. Nature is born in chaos.

Look what we've done so far. We're pretty good at the impossible.

Make no mistake about it. We are born blind, deaf, and mute. It is neither these eyes that give us sight, nor these ears that give us sound. It is not even these lips that give us voice. It is only love. Love makes us seek beauty and truth. Love yearns to connect. To experience. To understand. So close your eyes at once. Don’t utter a word. Perk up your ears and listen to that silent sound inside you where all this is found.

Make your book of life a musical. Never abandon obligations, but have fun leaving behind a colorful legacy. Never allow anybody to be the composer of your own destiny. Take control of your life, and don't allow limitations implanted by society tell you how your music is supposed to sound — or how your book is supposed to be written.

Most unintelligent or foolish people do not regard themselves as that; they regard themselves as not-that-intelligent or not-that-wise.

Miłość to za skromne słowo, nie uważa pan? Mam przyjaciółkę w Fern Tree, która uczy gry na fortepianie. Ona jest bardzo muzykalna, a mnie słoń na ucho nadepnął. Ale pewnego dnia ta przyjaciółka powiedziała mi, że każdy pokój ma swoją nutę. Trzeba ją tylko znaleźć. Zaczęła przebierać palcami po klawiszach, tam i z powrotem, i nagle jedna nuta powróciła do nas, po prostu obiła się od ścian, uniosła nad podłogą i wypełniła cały pokój takim jakimś doskonałym pomrukiem. Pięknym dźwiękiem. Było to tak, jak gdyby rzucił pan śliwkę, a ona wróciła by do pana całym sadem. Nie uwierzyłby pan w to, panie Evans. To takie dwie kompletnie różne rzeczy, nuta i pokój, a jakoś się znalazły. Ten dźwięk brzmiał… dobrze. Nie mówię jak idiotka? Czy sądzi pan, że właśnie to mamy na myśli, mówiąc o miłości? Taką nutę, która do nas powraca? Która znajduje pana nawet wtedy, kiedy nie chce pan zostać odnaleziony? Że pewnego dnia znajduje pan kogoś, a potem wszystko czym ten człowiek jest, powraca do pana jakimś dziwnym pomrukiem? Który pasuje. Jest piękny. Nie potrafię dobrze wytłumaczyć, o co mi chodzi, prawda? Nie jestem zbyt elokwentna. Ale tacy właśnie byliśmy, Jack i ja. Właściwie się nie znaliśmy. Nie wiem, czy wszystko w nim mi się podobało. Pewnie miał w sobie coś, co mnie irytowało. Ale ja byłam tym pokojem, a on tą nutą, i teraz Jacka nie ma. I wszędzie panuje cisza.

Marie-Louise Mallet emphasizes the decreased control over the experience of listening as opposed to looking: To look is to choose one’s point of view. [ . . . ] To listen is to be “touched” without ever being able to touch what touches us, without being able to seize or retain it. [ . . . ] It is to hear what one listens to take its distance, lose itself like a fleeting echo. To listen is to not be able to maintain, to keep present. It is not being able to retain. It’s to not be able to come back. [ . . . ] What has been heard will be kept only in memory, that is, kept as lost, without ever assuring that we have heard well, without being able to reassure ourselves.

Murphy alichanganyikiwa. Hakujua nini kilitokea na kwa nini. Ila, ghafla, alipotupa macho kushoto aliona kitu. Joka kubwa lilitambaa, ingawa kwa shida, kwa sababu ya sakafu, na kumfuata kummaliza. Murphy alijua joka hata angefanya vipi, hakuwa na uwezo wa kujikinga. Alipotaka kupiga kelele ili walinzi wa nje waje, Murphy alishindwa. Nyuma ya joka – katika mkia – kuna kitu kiling’aa, kikamshangaza! Muujiza ulimtokea Murphy lakini kitu kikamwambia aite walinzi wa nje ili waje wamuue yule nyoka. Lakini kabla hajapiga kelele, alisikia sauti; si ya mwanamume. Ya mwanamke!

Music is the sound of unspoken thoughts.

Music is a mixed mathematical science that concerns the origens, attributes, and distinctions of sound, out of which a cultivated and lovely melody and harmony are made, so that God is honored and praised but mankind is moved to devotion, virtue, joy, and sorrow.

Music gives inspiration...one that sounds windy with humming sound, such can put you in a trance, only to come back and discover some witty ideas.

Music is the fastest motivator in the world.

MUSIC OF THE UNIVERSE Without the orchestra of the universe, There would be no ether. And without its instrumentation By the ether, There would be no waves. And without any waves, There would be no sound. And without sound, There would be no music. And without music, There would be no life. And without a life force, There would be no matter. But it does not matter - Because what is matter, If there is no light?

Music replays the past memories, awaken our forgotten worlds and make our minds travel.

Music without soul is a sound but sound with a soul is music

My everlasting Summer fills heart with laughter like a blooming flower... Her diverse sounds is nature's symphony, sprinkle delight, with comfort of ocean breeze which needs no attest.. The unique every moment of soul's revival and its sun to shine...

My favorite sound in the whole world is your giggle, Anastasia.

Nyoka ni mnyama mdogo lakini anayeogopwa hata na majambazi wakubwa. Adui wa dirishani alipogeuka kumwangalia Murphy, alimwangalia pia mwenzake na kucheka bila Murphy kujua kilichofanya wafurahi. Ghafla, kuna kitu kilitokea! Nyoka mkubwa aina ya swila aliruka toka dirishani na kuanguka katika mabega ya yule adui. Adui aliruka kwa woga na kuanguka chini … halafu yakatokea maajabu! Bunduki ilifyatuka kutoka nje, ikaripuka kwa sauti ya juu, walinzi wote wa Murphy wakaruka na kuanguka chini shaghalabaghala, na kufa papo kwa papo!

No sound, once made, is ever truly lost. In electric clouds, all are safely trapped, and with a touch, if we find them, we can recapture those echoes of sad, forgotten wars, long summers, and sweet autumns.

Not a week after Annie put her foot in Mrs. Huffmaster's duff, the Captain upped and laid down the date.