Quotes About Echoes

All of these things considered, it is not surprising that one can detect echoes, correspondences and even an eternal return or two within the work of a single author. The passage of time does bring changes, yea and alas; but still, I would recognize myself anywhere.

We hear only our own voices, still echoes returning to our emptiness.

am the huntsman. Dead now, but that's no matter. The dead speak. With tongues blackened by time and regret. You can hear us if you listen.

One need not be a chamber to be haunted.

Lots of the world seems to be a repeat.

Nous, les âmes nomades, avons le culte des vestiges et du pèlerinage. Nous ne bâtissons rien de durable, mais nous laissons des traces. Et quelques bruits qui s'attardent.

Behind them in the garden the little stone house brooded among the shadows. It was lonely but not forsaken. It had not yet done with dreams and laughter and the joy of life; there were to be future summers for the little stone house; meanwhile, it could wait. And over the river in purple durance the echoes bided their time.

and over the river in purple durance the echoes bided there time.

Hayat?mda yank?lardan baÅŸka bir ÅŸey yok... Kat?p umutlar?n, hayallerin ve sevinçlerin yank?lar?. Güzel ve alayc?lar.

I'm just tired of everything . . . even of the echoes. There is nothing in my life but echoes . . . echoes of lost hopes and dreams and joys. They're beautiful and mocking.

How sweet the past is, no matter how wrong, or how sad. How sweet is yesterday's noise

Love's whispers drown out sorrow's echoes.

Words themselves are all the ghosts we need.

In California, the first spring is in November. March only echoes.

The voice has been swiftly stilled. Only the echoes and the memory remain; but they will linger.

Her voice is filled with distant sonorities, like reverberations in a cave: now you are at the place of annihilation, now you are at the place of annihilation. And she is herself a cave full of echoes, she is a system of repetitions, she is a closed circuit.

The moon rose, striking fire from the Cimmerian's horned helmet. No call awoke the echoes; yet suddenly the night grew tense and the jungle held its breath. Instinctively Conan loosened the great sword in its sheath.

We must be careful what we imagine, fear, or hope for. The echoes of our thought live on in eternity.

A tale begun in other days, When summer suns were glowing - A simple chime, that served to time The rhythm of your rowing - Whose echoes live in memory yet, Though envious years would say 'forget.

Long has paled that sunny sky: Echoes fade and memories die: Autumn frosts have slain July. Still she haunts me, phantomwise, Alice moving under skies Never seen by waking eyes.

A boat beneath a sunny sky, lingering onward dreamily in an evening of july - [...] long has paled that sunny sky: echoes fade and memories die. autumn frosts have slain july. [...] ever drifting down the stream - lingering in the golden gleam - life, what is it but a dream?

Deserted libraries hold the shades of writers who worked within, and are haunted by their absence.

One book calls to another unexpectedly, creating alliances across different cultures and centuries. A half-remembered line is echoed by another for reasons which, in the light of day, remain unclear. If the library in the morning suggests an echo of the severe and reasonably wishful order of the world, the library at night seems to rejoice in the world's essential, joyful muddle.

Only times and places, only names and ghosts.