Quotes About Sound

And the odd think in Dad's voice was the sound truth makes being said.

Far away in the cool dim empty rooms of the big old house, a silver bell tinkled and faded.

He felt that the stars had been pulverized by the sound of the black jets and that in the morning the earth would be covered with their dust like a strange snow.

A great thunderstorm of sound gushed from the walls. Music bombarded him at such an immense volume that his bones were almost shaken from their tendons; he felt his jaw vibrate, his eyes wobble in his head.

The courthouse clock struck the hour. The sounds blew across a town that was empty, emptier than it had ever been. Over empty streets and empty lots and empty lawns the sound faded.

The bombers crossed the sky and crossed the sky over the house, gasping, murmuring, whistling like an immense, invisible fan, circling in emptiness.

What sort of noise does a balloon make, adrift? None. No, not quite. It noises itself, it soughs, like the wind billowing your curtains all white as breaths of foam. Or it makes a sound like the stars turning over in your sleep. Or it announces itself like moonrise and moonset. That last is best: like the moon sailing the universal deeps, so rides a balloon.

And the odd thing in Dad's voice was the sound truth makes being said.

And all of our concerns have to do with economics and politics and not with the voice and sound of reason.

This mournful and restless sound was a fit accompaniment to my meditations.

We stopped, and the silence driven away by the stamping of our feet flowed back again from the recesses of the

He who wants to persuade should put his trust not in the right argument, but in the right word. The power of sound has always been greater than the power of sense.

Self-realization, plus feeling, is the only key to healing. To get results is no proof that your method is scientific or sound.

It hasn't always been this way, because glaciers who are ice ghosts create oceans, carve earth and shape this city here, by the sound. They swim backwards in time.

Her escape is my own. I tell her, yes. Yes. We ride out for breath over the distance. Night air approaches, the galloping other-life. No sound. No sound.

Her own daughter was born, like she had been, in either place or all places, so she could leave, leap into the sound she had always heard, a voice like water, like the gods weaving against sundown in a scarlet light.

And I like your laugh, Sabbath; it's inaudible.

Without anyone to talk to, a person is not quite real. Sounds are very important - we are like bats tapping at each other with sounds, making sure there is someone there, groping along. Sounds. Syllables. The beat of music. It is all a curious flowing, which you can hear only when you are silent yourself.

Entonces oyó el llanto. Eso lo despertó: un llanto suave, delgado, que quizá por delgado pudo traspasar la maraña del sueño, llegando hasta el lugar donde anidan los sobresaltos.

No, no era posible calcular la hondura del silencio que produjo aquel grito. Como si la tierra se hubiera vaciado de su aire. Ningún sonido; ni el del resuello, ni el del latir del corazón; como si se detuviera el mismo ruido de la conciencia.

The sound of rushing water filled Amy Cahill's ears. If she kept her eyes closed, she could imagine she was standing under a beautiful tropical waterfall. Unfortunately, she was hiding in an airport bathroom. Inside

Instead of a sneeze, what emerged sounded like an elephant strangling on a trumpet.

Booming and booming of the new-come bee.

It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound.