Quotes About Echoes

I am the one without hope, the word without echoes, he who lost everything and he who had everything.

I heard you. Sometimes, in silence, at night, I hear the voices of things beyond eyesight, like echoes of ancient songs. I heard your voice, lonely in my dreams—it woke me, so I came. You see, I know how it is when you speak a name into an empty room with no one on earth to answer to it.

What happens in a room lingers there invisibly, all deeds, all words, always. Not seen, not heard, except by some, and even then imperfectly. In this very room both birth and death have taken place. Long ago, maybe, but the blood is still visible on certain days, when time wears thin.

The Song of Kali is with us. It has been with us for a very long time. Its chorus grows and grows and grows. But there are other voices to be heard. There are other songs to be sung.

Nothing in our minds is ever really gone.

It's disturbing at my age to look at a young woman's destructive behaviour and hear the echoes of it, of one's own destructiveness in youth.

How do our lives ravel out into the no-wind, no-sound, the weary gestures wearily recapitulant: echoes of old compulsions with no-hand on no-string: in sunset we fall into furious attitudes, dead gestures of dolls.

Our windows were dark. The entrance was empty. I walked close to the left wall when I entered, but it was empty: just the stairs curving up into shadows echoes of feet in the sad generations like light dust upon the shadows, my feet waking them like dust, lightly to settle again. I

The sound of the Gion Shoja temple bells echoes the impermanence of all things; the color of the sala flowers reveals the truth that to flourish is to fall. The proud do not endure, like a passing dream on a night in spring; the mighty fall at last, to be no more than dust before the wind.

Quite like old times,' the room says.

I ought not to speak about the dead because the dead are all over the place.

Satin Island, like all books, contains hundreds of borrowings, echoes, remixes and straight repetitions. To list them all would take up as much space as the text itself. The critical reader can entertain him- or herself tracking some of them down, if he or she is that way inclined.

from the grassland and reached for the sky like towering, dragon-made echoes of the trees that used to dominate the land.

So I should be aware of the dangers of self-consciousness, but at the same time, I'll be plowing through the fog of all these echoes, plowing through mixed metaphors, noise, and will try to show the core, which is still there, as a core, and is valid, despite the fog. The core is the core is the core. There is always the core, that can't be articulated. Only caricatured.

History with its flickering lamp stumbles along the trail of the past, trying to reconstruct its scenes, to revive its echoes, and kindle with pale gleams the passion of former days.

loss sings to loss

Their laughter floods the hallway, sounding like the cawing of crows.

Far away in the mountains a shepherd hears their [the warriors'] thundering.

The only place their voices were left was in my head. It was better than being alone but it was so, so lonely.

She climbed, and climbed. The tower vibrated slightly, perhaps because its height made the wind a stroking hand upon its string. Half-heard cries, ragged whispers, soft slithering sounds echoed from the stone walls. The Speaking Tower, it was called, for here Summer could listen to the voices of her subjects, their wishes and fears seeping from rough mauve rock. The outside was white-and-greenstone, but the inside of the Speaking was a pink throat.

The sounds of extinct birds may be preserved in the songs of mockingbirds

The echoes of beauty you've seen transpire, Resound through dying coals of a campfire.

The air itself is one vast library, on whose pages are for ever written all that man has ever said or woman whispered.

Christ is the Word of God, the answer of God. All the words of the prophets, philosophers, and poets are echoes of this Word. In