Best 4756 quotes in «voice quotes» category

People can be reassured by a tone of voice. By a touch. A gesture. Even if the voice and gestures are false, the innocent person meets the liar halfway to complete the lie. It's a partnership.

People are very busy; they are so busy that when they walk in the crowds they see no one, no one but themselves; they hear no voice, no voice but their own voice!

People die, and everything they've ever said just echoes around and around. There's nothing new. Only the same nonsense from their lives.

«Per­ho­nen is not here any­more,» it says, with a voice made of wings and whis­pers.

POLISH your MIND to reflect the shimmering BEAUTY of your WORDS and ACTIONS.

Places I love come back to me like music, Hush me and heal me when I am very tired; I see the oak woods at Saxton's flaming In a flare of crimson by the frost newly fired; And I am thirsty for the spring in the valley As for a kiss ungiven and long desired. I know a bright world of snowy hills at Boonton, A blue and white dazzling light on everything one sees, The ice-covered branches of the hemlocks sparkle Bending low and tinkling in the sharp thin breeze, And iridescent crystals fall and crackle on the snow-crust With the winer sun drawing cold blue shadows from the trees. Violet now, in veil on veil of evening, The hills across from Cromwell grow dreamy and far; A wood-thrush is singing soft as a viol In the heart of the hollow where the dark pools are; The primrose has opened her pale yellow flowers And heaven is lighting star after star. Places I love come back to me like music– Mid-ocean, midnight, the eaves buzz drowsily; In the ship's deep churning the eerie phosphorescence Is like the souls of people who were drowned at sea, And I can hear a man's voice, speaking, hushed , insistent, At midnight, in mid-ocean, hour on hour to me.

Quotes are echos of voices transporting wisdom, humor, and love. Returning again to the human condition, fleeting once more as a dove.

Queen Ariel held the nautilus and considered thoughtfully. But the little mermaid didn't think. She acted. Before she realized fully what she was doing Ariel had smashed the nautilus on a sharply faceted rock. It didn't break like a normal shell. It shattered like a human vessel. Shards flew in all directions equally, unhampered by gravity or luck. Ariel pitched forward. She choked, no longer breathing the air of the Dry World. Her arms flailed up like a puppet's. Her torso whipped back and forth, pummeled by unseen forces. Something flew into her mouth, up her nose, and suffused her entire body with a heat that threatened to burn. It rushed into her lungs and expanded, expelling whatever breath she had left, pushing blood to her extremities, pushing everything out that wasn't it, leaving room for nothing else. Ariel collapsed. It was over. It was like the thing, whatever it was, had been absorbed by her body and had now dissipated into her blood and flesh. She took a breath. Her heart started beating again. She hadn't been aware it had stopped. She coughed. A few grains of sand came out. And then she sang.

Reflecting on my time at the 2006 to 2008 observatory, I started to lose my voice in management meetings after extensively handling the rubber mercury mirror support system and the large glass jars of on-site stored mercury with my bare hands and no respiratory protection.

Refusal to engage in spiritual warfare does not exempt you from being among the next casualties of war

She looked down at the man. His face appeared different than the first time she had seen him, as if he'd fought some battle and won. A peacefulness stole over her, causing her to take a deep breath. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. His scent filled her mind and her fingers began to glide through his hair, exploring the shape of his head, then his temples, then down to the sharp plain of his cheekbones. "Come back, my duke," she whispered. "I have need to see thee fattened up and shouting orders." Suddenly she felt a touch on her cheek. Caught in the dreamlike spell, she turned into the hand without opening her eyes. As she had done, he caressed her cheek. Now his thumb ran along the line of her jaw. When fingers touched her lips, her eyes fluttered open. "Your voice saved me." His own was raspy and deep, but gratitude glowed in the dark pools that were his eyes. And he was even more devastatingly attractive with them open. Serena drew a sharp breath, wanting to get up, both trapped beneath his weight and that of his words. "Thou hast been very sick." She strained to right her senses. When she started to slide out from under his head, he grasped her hand with surprising strength. "Stay." "I must not. My father will be back soon." "Have we reached Philadelphia then?" "Yes. The others have already been sold. 'Tis fortunate thee wert so ill and escaped the soul-drivers, sir." As she spoke, she slid out from beneath his head and refilled his cup. "Here, have another drink, and thou wilt hear the tale." He smiled at her with such a look that she thought she might melt into the wood f the floor. "A long story, I hope. I would listen to your voice forever." Heat surged to her cheeks, her gaze dropping to the floor. Her mind told her how inappropriate it was to behave like this with a complete stranger. And yet, it was as if other parts of her- her heart, her soul, her very skin- knew him as deeply as she knew herself.

Share your voice and your heart. Listen to how it falls in with the cosmic symphony. Let it be imperfect, incomplete, unrefined. The masterpiece is coming.

She let the fear burn inside her like fuel, making her voice even stronger.

Remember you are the voice for those who cannot talk; you are the protector of those who cannot protect themselves.

She made the mistake of raising me to have a voice

She told him that he had the most beautiful voice she'd ever heard, that it sounded like whiskey and wood smoke.

She was a voice with a body as afterthought, a wry smile that sailed through heavy traffic. Give her a history and she'd disappear. Eric Packer about Vija Kinski

Su voz suena preciosa por teléfono...preciosa. Por un momento, siento auténtico pánico. No sé qué decirle. Me gustaría decirle: «Oiga, Irene, creo que es usted hermosa...Creo que es usted maravillosa.» Me gustaría decirle algo que fuera cierto, por ridículo que fuese, porque, ahora que he oído su voz, todo ha cambiado.

She whipped her head around in his direction. Light dazzled her. All she could make out was a tall figure with broad shoulders. But she heard the voice clearly. A deep voice smooth and rich as the cream she scooped from the new milk on her farm in Yorkshire. That beautiful cultured baritone frightened her more than all Monks and Filey's ribald situations.

Shout to the top!

Silent found the ultimate unspoken voice.

Some believe to be spiritual, is to be always loving and shit... Being spiritual is taking no shit, by believing that your voice deserves to be heard if the deed is not satisfying your soul.

STAY AN ORIGINAL WORK OF ART In this short lifetime, Why not be -- True to your own voice, Your own story, Your own truths, Your own style, Beat and drum -- Instead of reflect the words, Songs and march of another? Why not use your soul's own Unique language, Instead of constantly try to toot something Not true, suitable or intended For your own instrument, Painting, Song, Or story? Why create an image you cannot produce? And if you can create a brilliant mask, How long will you really be able to hide your true soul Behind it Until its colors and plastic Begin to fade and melt with Time? Do not speak about truth when there is no truth in you. Do not speak about being yourself when you are trying hard to be someone else. Do not keep crying about your pain when you you have no shame creating pain in others. Do not step on truth, or someone else's truth, or someone who fights for truth -- And think there will be no repercussions; For there is more danger in silence, And for every action there will always be a reaction Of opposite or equal measure. Treasure integrity, Treasure your own story and truths. How will people remember you when you want to be an imitation? How will people remember your voice when you want to sound like another? Be so different that everybody will remember you. Be yourself because an original is worth more than a copy. Be true to yourself or your heart will never forgive you; For once you silence the music from your own instrument, Your true purpose and intended path will begin to fade. There is no greater crime Than ignoring your conscience And the truths intended For you to live, learn, And share. So Stay TRUE to YOU In everything You do. That itself is the purest And truest Art. Suzy Kassem, "Stay An Original Work of Art" Copyright 1993, The Spring For Wisdom

Steam Lodge Song of the Sun Dance Ceremony: A voice, I will send. Hear me! The land All over, A voice I am sending! Hear me! I will live!

Take a step towards actualizing the very thing you are persuaded for and do not allow injustice to silence your voice.

Tears is the voice of heart in pain, in absence of feelings one don't care what you share.

Something deep inside of me speaks with the voice of the psycho: For who could ever love a beast?

Sometimes Truth cannot be silenced.

So they're looking for a new face, with a voice to go along. I can tell you right now that ain't my style. I don't do no sing alongs, with my freedom.

Speech is the voice of the heart.

Tafuta kitu cha kufanya katika maisha yako unachokiamini zaidi kuliko pesa, kutoa sauti kwa ajili ya watu wasioweza kusikika kwa mfano, na ukishakipata kuwa kiongozi na mkarimu kwa wengine. Kutoa sauti kwa ajili ya watu wasioweza kusikika inaweza kuwa ndiyo nafasi yako uliyopangiwa na Mungu uitumie kwa manufaa ya wengine, si kwa manufaa yako, nafasi za wengine zitatumika kwa manufaa yako. Kuna vitu vingi ambavyo mtu anaweza kufanya; chagua kimoja kinacholeta maana zaidi katika maisha yako na ukifanye hicho, kwa nguvu zako zote.

…that beautiful voice which made everything she said sound like a caress,

The inner voice is divine voice of God.

The dilemma for women who love to write may not have so much to do with finding the elusive literary voice, as with being reluctant to use the one that's already lurking inside, just waiting for the chance to speak up. Many of us, especiall,y those from the generations taught to be good, accommodating girls, are afraid of sounding too strong, too loud, too unconventional, or simply too much like the self we're afraid to reveal to the world. Most of us have at least an inkling of what form our writing voice should take, if only we might find the courage to reveal it.

The human voice is still the most paramount vessel or weapon to use, to uphold justice and to protest against injustice.

The best art is not always the most popular art, and the most popular art is never truly the best art. The best art is that which is streamed through God. And the worst art is that which is void of God. The master artist of the universe is the Creator of All Things, and his reflection is in all of us. Only the artist who is aware that he is a reflection of that greatness, and that creativity is supreme love, is a true divine artist. Even if he is not the most popular artist, he will be very popular among the stars of His universe. That is the master artist, one who uses his talents to serve as a vehicle of God. In his work, you hear God's voice and see with His eyes.

The Bible is the voice of God, calling out to everyone.

The ear never forgets what the soul says.

The infant New York Times boasted that no newspaper printing what was really worth reading ever perished for lack of readers.

The memory of his voice made her feel warm and happy, though she could not explain why

The man’s words were as deep and dark as midnight

The man had one of those dark, deep voices, the kind that made men listen and women shed their clothing.

The mind speaks louder than the voice.

There are so many voices in the world and none of them is without meaning.

There are so many different ways for someone to say your name. I’m not sure I ever realized that before I met Jesse. Prior to him, it was just Rose calling out to me with love and affection or Gideon relaying his quiet approval or disapproval. Crisp, clear notes. When Jesse says my name, it’s a chord, a mash-up of several intense emotions all reflected in two syllables.

The most honorable of all men are those who will never raise their voice to make a woman become voiceless or raise their hands to make a woman become powerless.

The nautilus shell was exquisite, brown and white and perfectly striped. The math that lay like a dazzling creation spell over all who lived in the sea showed clearly in the spiral, each cell as great as the sum of the two previous sections. Everything in the ocean was a thing of beauty and numbers, even in death. Mermaids could live for a long time, but their bodies became foam that dissipated into nothing when they died. The poor little mollusk who lived in this shell had a very short life, but his shell could last for centuries. Ariel sighed and brushed her fingers over it, feeling strangely melancholy despite the triumph she literally held in her hands. Years of being mute could be swept away in a second. Years of frustration, years of silent crying, years of anger. And then what? If she destroyed it, what would it change?

There are some people that should stay quiet, because they understand. As there are those that should stay quiet, because they don't understand. Some things are better left unsaid or voiced.

The sound of her voice was so pretty, it almost disguised the ugliness of her words.

There’s comfort in hearing a voice when the world is silent.