Quotes About Echoes

Space echoes like an immense tomb, yet the stars still burn. Why does the sun take so long to die ?

Hild nodded, but couldn't say anything. Soft, shocking echoes lapped at her bones and squeezed her insides. Gwladus kept stroking her belly and the echoes began to run into one another like ripples on a pond, and then slowly calmed.

All the nations that ever lived have left their footsteps in the sand. The traces fade with every tide, the echoes grow faint, the images are fractured, the human material is atomized and recycled. But if we know where to look, there is always a remnant, a remainder, an irreducible residue.

Education is a state-controlled manufactory of echoes.

My steps along this streetResoundin another streetIn whichI hear my stepsPassing along this streetIn whichOnly the mist is real.

the names come back to me like a song: Lorch, D'Augny, Neuhoff—

Je crois qu'on entend encore dans les entrées d'immeubles l'écho des pas de ceux qui avaient l'habitude de les traverser et qui, depuis, ont disparu. Quelque chose continue de vibrer après leur passage, des ondes de plus en plus faibles, mais que l'on capte si l'on est attentif.

The Champs-Elysées...It's like that pond a British novelist talks about, at the bottom of which, in layered deposits, lie the echoes of the voices of every passerby who has daydreamed on its banks.The shimmering water preserves those echoes forever and, on quiet evenings, they all blend together...

There, onscreen, he was crossing a hotel corridor, and I thought it really strange that one could pass from a world in which everything ended to another, freed from the laws of gravity, in which you were suspended for all eternity: from that evening on Rue Froidevaux, of which nothing remained except the fading echoes in my memory, to those several seconds captured on film, in which Deckers would cross a hotel corridor until the end of time.

That's another thing about Noise. Everything that's ever happened to you just keeps right on talking, for ever and ever.

Words are pale shadows of forgotten names.

So he went down through the house, its silence alive with clocks, suggestions of subterfuge, the blatant echoes of downright lies, together with hints of the exasperating, unknowable truth.

It's corny, but I think poems are echoes of the voices in your head and from your past. Your sisters, your father, your ancestors taking to you and through you. Some of it is primal, some of it is hallucinatory bullshit. That madness those boys rapping ain't nothing but urban folklore. They retelling stories passed down from chicken coop to apartment stoop to Ford coupe. Hear that rhyme, boy. Shit, I could get down and rap if I had to. MC Big Mama Osteoporosis in the house.

Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory —

Music, when soft voices die, vibrates in the memory.

YOU SEE THEM SOMETIMES. They're just out of the corner of your eye, when you're not expecting them, and sometimes if you close your eyes very, very tightly, and open them quickly, there will be a quick flash of them behind your eyelids before they dissipate. They are the echoes of deja vu, they are the regrets that are fleeting, they are that which you didn't know you missed... They are everywhere and nowhere.