Quotes About Echo

This is why she doesn't put much stock in so-called secrets, or the meaningfulness of untold recollections that become, in their airtight echo chambers, the supposed stuff of secrets. They are only a way to become retrospectively enraged at someone else so that your own adult weaknesses can be tidily excused.

Miranda nodded and her reflection nodded, so that was twice

Laughter appears to stand in need of an echo, Listen to it carefully: it is not an articulate, clear, well-defined sound; it is something which would fain be prolonged by reverberating from one to another, something beginning with a crash, to continue in successive rumblings, like thunder in a mountain.

Prayer isThe world in tune,A spirit-voice,And vocal joys,Whose echo is heaven's bliss.O let me climbWhen I lie down!

The bards sublime,Whose distant footsteps echoThrough the corridors of Time.

Feedback loops, echo chambers, circular reinforcement. All could play a part in escalating the utterly imaginary to the level of reality, sometimes with fatal consequences.

In this world it is much easier to hear the echo than the answer

I know it is your voice in the corridor but when I run outside the corridor is empty. There is nothing I can do that will make any difference. The last word was yours.

Where had he heard that before?

But then there will be dragons everywhere," he said. "Today the beach is all ours!" Clearsight gave a little shiver, and although he was trying not to listen, something fluttered through her mind: a whisper, an echo, his own voice shouting, "It's all ours! The whole kingdom is ours!

the echo chamber that most expat communities become

Talking with a Martian is like talking with an echo. You don't get argument but you don't get results.

Poetry is news brought to the mountains by a unicorn and an echo.

Let echo, too, perform her part, Prolonging every note with art; And in a low expiring strain, Play all the comfort o'er again.

Art is a delayed echo.

Destruction is as valid an artistic statement as construction. Both statements echo the model of the society we live in. The only invalid art is utopian

The sound would disappear, but the hurt would linger, like the smell of piss long after it has evaporated.

I see myself abandoned, solitary, thrown into a cell without dimensions, where light and shadows are silent phantoms. Within my inner self I find the silence I am seeking. But it leaves me so bereft of any memory of any human being and of me myself, that I transform this impression into the certainty of physical solitude. Were I to cry out — I can no longer see things clearly — my voice would receive the same indifferent echo from the walls of the earth.

From time to time, too, and for the space of two or three paces, an image or an echo would rise up from the recesses of time: in the little streets of the beaters of silver and gold, for instance, there was a clear, unhurried tinkling, as if a djinn with a thousand arms was absent-mindedly practising on a xylophone.

We have heard that voice before, but it was later: it was only yesterday, in the Ukraine, at one of the Dubno shooting pits,

Grief loves the hollow; all it wants is to hear its own echo.

Her screams spiraled up into the night air

A letter is a soul, so faithful an echo of the speaking voice that to the sensitive it is among the richest treasures of love.

The language of sex seemed to echo with Shop: as a Playboy, apparently, you got hammered or plastered, then you nailed or screwed or drilled a woman who was built, or had a rack.