Quotes About Echoes

No one lets dead poets lie in peace. We are like old meat on a crowded dinner table.

Hollow is the head of a fool. And everyone who listens only to the echoes bouncing in his skull, believing them true, is doubly a fool. Yet these echoes are all we ever hear. Beliefs feeding into beliefs, mindless as serpents devouring their own tail.

Sorry stared at the coin, feeling echoes of power slam into her skull like ocean waves.

The sobbing echoes of the woman's song streamed away down the twisting alleys and the last particles of dust fell back on the street.

He felt the sounds of life would not reach this far down, but the sounds of death would.

The walls in my room know your name. They heard me sigh your name last night!

From within the abysmal depths of a heart, the soul echoes A Lover's Tale of an Eternal Love (Through the Darkness, WIth Love - Vol. 1)

Su idioma eran las texturas y los ecos, el color de las voces, el ritmo de los pasos.

What happens, if the writer is good, is usually not that the work seems derivative or trivial but just the opposite: the work actually acquires depth and resonance from the echoes and chimes it sets up with prior texts, weight from the accumulated use of certain basic patterns and tendencies.

You see, humans always leave something behind.

If these walls could talk, I wonder what secrets they'd tell.

Scattered among these things are reminders that sound once existed: a metronome, a drumming pad, a guitar pick, a trumpet mouthpiece, a music stand, a tuning fork, a block of rosin...The older instruments bear the marks of those who have already played them, the scuffs and bites and dents that are the mysterious scars of sound. In their midst the house hangs, tenuous and enveloping, a sounding board waiting to be struck.

No earthly act escapes its eternal echoes, echoes more substantial than the acts themselves.

Every house has a heart, the echoes of its owner's presence, and simple magic that turns a building into a home.

How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start, When memory plays an old tune on the heart.

We need that expression. Whether we want to call it protest or not, we need to express and echo the echoes of the people. Artists need to do that.

Night is when the whispers of the past become the echoes of the present.

I love the echoes of a home filled to the rim with poetry, books and art.

What's left is palimpsest—one memory bleeding into another, overwriting it.

We leave justice to the universe. And what rings out always echos back.

You're asked this a lot. Or maybe you're only asked it once, and the other times are just echoes.

Comme de longs échos qui de loin se confondent / Dans une ténébreuse et profonde unité, / Vaste comme la nuit et comme la clarté, / Les parfums, les couleurs et les sons se répondent.

Writing in modern Hebrew is a bit like playing chamber music inside a huge, empty cathedral. If you are not very careful with the echoes, you may evoke some monstrosities.

these leftover memories