Best 4756 quotes in «voice quotes» category

I aim to be lionhearted, but my hands still shake and my voice isn’t quite loud enough.

I am a story-teller, even a story-teller of renown. May I add now that I am not much to look at? No, I am serious. My face is hideous. A look at me reminds one of a little finger – brown - enlarged to the proportions of a human body, wrapped two thirds down with a cloth about the loins, the entire frame resting on two wobbly knees. I was born bald and not a single strand of hair has ever sprouted on this miserable head. Think of me as a faceless man; in fact, I would rather you think of me as just a voice.

I am hearing a more resounding voice in the spirit saying,God is changing the guard in the Nigerian church.

I am not a finished poem, and I am not the song you’ve turned me into. I am a detached human being, making my way in a world that is constantly trying to push me aside, and you who send me letters and emails and beautiful gifts wouldn’t even recognise me if you saw me walking down the street where I live tomorrow for I am not a poem. I am tired and worn out and the eyes you would see would not be painted or inspired but empty and weary from drinking too much at all times and I am not the life of your party who sings and has glorious words to speak for I don’t speak much at all and my voice is raspy and unsteady from unhealthy living and not much sleep and I only use it when I sing and I always sing too much or not at all and never when people are around because they expect poems and symphonies and I am not a poem but an elegy at my best but unedited and uncut and not a lot of people want to work with me because there’s only so much you can do with an audio take, with the plug-ins and EQs and I was born distorted, disordered, and I’m pretty fine with that, but others are not.

I'd had much practice turning my mind away from certain memories of my childhood. I could quickly dial her remembered voice from a whisper to a silence.

... I deny your right to put words into my mouth.

I do not care what I labeled, as long as I am heard.

I don’t know why everyone is still trying to find out whether heaven and hell exist. Why do we need more evidence? They exist here on this very Earth. Heaven is standing atop Mount Qasioun overlooking the Damascene sights with the wind carrying Qabbani’s dulcet words all around you. And hell is only four hours away in Aleppo where children’s cries drown out the explosions of mortar bombs until they lose their voice, their families, and their limbs. Yes, hell certainly does exist right now, at this moment, as I pen this poem. And all we’re doing to extinguish this hellfire is sighing, shrugging, liking, and sharing. Tell me: what exactly does that make us? Are we any better than the gatekeepers of hell?

I don’t remember his face or the place we ate. I only remember how he grabbed my hand and his voice when he spoke of his dad.

I felt his voice. Fingers rubbing moss. Smoke curling. Wood worn and smoothed over time. His voice had darkness in it that hovered close to the ground, like a mist hanging over a lake deep in a forest at dusk. A bolt of sea-green velvet. A sensation as much as a series of sounds. It reverberated inside me.

If by years of patient suffering, God can manage to take the harshness out of my voice, then the time has been well-spent.

If your altar is not active, your voice will not be strong

If we can only be still, we shall behold, the beauty of a still voice.

In a snow-white field near Moscow, I want you above all to hear how sad my living voice is.

. . . I had on . . . black jeggings under a fitted, sleeveless, flowered dress, so he could see my true shape as well as my eclectic style, which gave the middle finger to the coldness of winter.

I hear the fear and hope fighting in my voice.

I just want your voice aimed at me again. I want to absorb the direction of your eyes…

I hear your voice, and all feels right with the world again.

I’ll tell you another secret, this one for your own good. You may think the past has something to tell you. You may think that you should listen, should strain to make out its whispers, should bend over backward, stoop down low to hear its voice breathed up from the ground, from the dead places. You may think there’s something in it for you, something to understand or make sense of. But I know the truth: I know from the nights of Coldness. I know the past will drag you backward and down, have you snatching at whispers of wind and the gibberish of trees rubbing together, trying to decipher some code, trying to piece together what was broken. It’s hopeless. The past is nothing but a weight. It will build inside of you like a stone. Take it from me: If you hear the past speaking to you, feel it tugging at your back and running its fingers up your spine, the best thing to do—the only thing— is run.

I like your voice the most in this world.

I looked at him and the other two people whose names I’d just learned. “So . . . so this is home then?” Akinli looked at me, perplexed, then turned to Ben and Julie. “She said some girls left her here and told her it was home. That’s all she knows. She doesn’t even know you.” Julie wiped at her tears, trying to calm herself. He moved his eyes back to me as quickly as he could manage. “Kahlen? You remember me, right?” I stared into this face, searching for something familiar. I didn’t recognize the angle of his chin, the length of his fingers. I didn’t know the slope of his shoulder or the shape of his lips. “Akinli, right?” I asked. This poor boy. I pitied him in the depths of my heart. Clearly, he’d already been going through something, and I could see the last scrap of fight he had in him dying with those words. “Yes.” “I don’t remember ever seeing you before in my life. I’m sorry.” He pressed his lips together as if he was swallowing the urge to cry. “But,” I said, “I know your voice. I know it as if it were my own.

I lost my voice and my best friend too On swift, fierce winds and wings of blue, The cold rain fell where beams had shone, So I wrapped up tight and safe. Alone. But I missed my friend, I missed my voice, And my heart still whispered of another choice To break out of my binding, safe, and warm, And see what the world looked like after the storm. So I struggled free and was greeted by Colorful brushstrokes across the sky, The melody of the summer breeze And blue wings like mine in hazel trees. On the soft, sweet air of the mountain glade, We gathered together in cool, green shade, And told our stories, beginnings to ends, And found our song in the hearts of new friends.

I’m fulfilling my calling when I raise my voice concerning injustice

I’m fulfilling my calling when I raise my voice for the truth

I’m fulfilling my calling when I raise my voice high

In facing our shattered life stories, we must reach deep inside our pain -- for it is here that we can break our silence and find our new voice.

Intuition is a sacred voice.

In most cases, verbal prayer alone does not change anything; when actions are branded with prayer, wonderful things happen. Actions alone do not make it as well; they lead to success when guided to labour by answered prayers. Pray and work!

In solitude, you listen to sacred voice.

In qualche luogo, non lontano, cantava una donna. Dove e da che parte, era difficile capire. Il canto sommesso, lento, malinconico, simile a un pianto e percepibile appena, si faceva udire ora a destra ora a sinistra, ora dall’alto, ora sembrava sottoterra, come se dovunque nella steppa si librasse uno spirito invisibile, e cantasse.

In solitude, you listen to the sacred voice.

in the end it is words poetry. sunsets someone’s deep blue silk voice. mountain scents. someone’s smile. eyes. that we have no defenses against.

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 play viola... but I'm really a singer." "That's not really what you are," she says frankly. Her directness startles me. "What do you mean?" It maybe what you do. But even a voice can be taken from you.

I remind myself of the fundamental notion of what it means to be a writer. A writer is the one who controls the narrative.

I remember on one of my many visits with Thomas A. Edison, I brought up the question of Ingersoll. I asked this great genius what he thought of him, and he replied, 'He was grand.' I told Mr. Edison that I had been invited to deliver a radio address on Ingersoll, and would he be kind enough to write me a short appreciation of him. This he did, and a photostat of that letter is now a part of this house. In it you will read what Mr. Edison wrote. He said: 'I think that Ingersoll had all the attributes of a perfect man, and, in my opinion, no finer personality ever existed....' I mention this as an indication of the tremendous influence Ingersoll had upon the intellectual life of his time. To what extent did Ingersoll influence Edison? It was Thomas A. Edison's freedom from the narrow boundaries of theological dogma, and his thorough emancipation from the degrading and stultifying creed of Christianity, that made it possible for him to wrest from nature her most cherished secrets, and bequeath to the human race the richest of legacies. Mr. Edison told me that when Ingersoll visited his laboratories, he made a record of his voice, but stated that the reproductive devices of that time were not as good as those later developed, and, therefore, his magnificent voice was lost to posterity.

It is through victims such as myself who still have a voice that the world will change to be a better place.

She remembers rehearsals. Wrong notes turning to right ones, dissonance becoming harmony. She remembers “O Holy Night” sounding so perfect, in the end, her voice wrapping itself around Jonah’s like they were created just for this. She remembers his smile at her from across their shared mic. She remembers getting asked to reprise her duet with Jonah a year later. Just after everything happened with Luke. But then Mr. Boyden took her aside. Told her that Jonah had backed out. He’d said he was too busy for extra rehearsals, but she knew: it was because of her. She saw it in Jonah’s face, in the way he avoided her eyes. She saw it in everyone else’s faces too. She was a bullet he’d just dodged. She remembers standing up for the solo she was given instead—her last performance before she quit choir. She remembers opening her mouth, nothing coming out. She’d cleared her throat, tried again. Her voice emerged, but all wrong: small and shaky and sharp. With everyone looking at her, with the rumors still swirling, she felt exposed. She felt small and shaky and sharp. Vulnerable, but made of angles and thorns.

It doesn't take long to persuade each other to stop seeing a person as a person. And when enough people are quiet for long enough, a handful of voices can give the impression that everyone is screaming.

I thought a voice had to be about your fluency, your dexterity, your virtuosity. But in fact your voice could be about your failings, your falterings, your physical limits. The voices that ring hardest in our heads are not the perfect voices. They are the voices with an additional dimension, which is pain.

It may take many voices for people to hear the same message.

It only makes the voice in my head grow louder. And when the voice grows loud enough to push past my lips, the Kaiser grows angry

It only takes one voice to give others the chance to see possibilities.

...it only takes one voice, at the right pitch, to start an avalanche.

I used to listen to all the voices in my head that told me I wasn’t good enough, or that I would fail if I tried, or that everyone would judge me harshly for my truth. I used to let one fear or the other dictate how I chose to live my life. Not surprisingly, my life didn’t change much. I spent a lot of time with regret, and thinking about what could have been. I found myself wishing I’d at least tried to do some of the things I’d been so afraid to do. So I began to. I made the choice to hear all the fearful critics in my head without actually listening to them. I gave them a voice, but no longer a say. I had given all the power to my fear, after all, so it was within me to take it away. And my entire life changed, as every life does once we insist that our fears take a backseat to our courage and desire. Fear may not be a choice, but the commitment to take brave action, despite our fears, is always there for the choosing. I spent enough time obeying my fears. Too much time. Now I listen to different voices, the ones reminding me that no matter what happens, no matter what people think, the great potential of my life, and joy, lives within my commitment to live my life beyond my fear.

It was a voice that you felt you had to listen to—or you ignored at your peril.

It was surprising to think that in fact they were signs, that is, the ashes of an incinerated voice. Bunların gerçekte yazı işaretleri, yani yanan bir sesin külleri olduklarını düşünmek inanılmaz bir şeydi.

It’s called an inner voice for a reason. It’s the gnawing feeling inside your stomach telling you yes or no. It’s the one voice in your life that isn’t tampered by other’s biased opinions, scars, feelings or thoughts. Go with it, you know yourself better than anyone ever does.

It's morning now, and I miss the soft rasp of her voice already. Ugh. I'm in trouble, aren't I?

It's not a silly pursuit to read beyond what's handed to you, to seek out new voices and leap over the usual books everyone's already talking about and see what you can find on your own. Making definitive choices about what we spend our time on as readers can make a statement, a difference. We can lift other writers up, give space and attention to more voices than the ones that already have all the space and attention. There is power in what we choose to consume as readers, and there is power in what we choose to amplify, celebrate, and share.