Quotes About Sound

I'd like to lose enough weight so that my bones creaked louder than the floor

Memories are hunting horns whose sound dies on the wind.

Coldplay frontman Chris Martin has found his niche in making the sound of solitude a triumphant experience, like Good Will Hunting: The Musical.

The Beautiful arises from the perceived harmony of an object, whether sight or sound, with the inborn and constitutive rules of the judgment and imagination: and it is always intuitive.

I thought I could make out Jamie's Highland screech, but that was likely imagination; they all sounded equally demented.

When there is an original sound in the world, it makes a hundred echoes.

If sequestered pain made a sound, the atmosphere would be humming all the time.

Out, out brief candle, life is but a walking shadow...a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Aww, the sound of waves crashing along the ocean side and spraying back up to touch the wind only for a moment, then to fall back down becoming the ocean once more...

Every life has a sound. A voice to be heard. A song to be sung. A note to be played.

Music gives inspiration...one that sounds windy with humming sound, such can put you in a trance, only to come back and discover some witty ideas.

From your hand, creating God, come the shape of the land, the warmth of fire, the mystery of shadows, the feel of skin. From your mouth, mighty Spirit, flow the sound of thunder, the whisper of rain, the stillness of dawn, the humming of night. May I touch, O God; O Spirit, may I hear.

F]ireworks had for her a direct and magical appeal. Their attraction was more complex than that of any other form of art. They had pattern and sequence, colour and sound, brilliance and mobility; they had suspense, surprise, and a faint hint of danger; above all, they had the supreme quality of transience, which puts the keenest edge on beauty and makes it touch some spring in the heart which more enduring excellences cannot reach.

as some strings, untouched, sound when no one is speaking. So it was when love slipped inside us.

When the body dies, where will they go, those migrant birds and prayer calls, as heat from sheets when taken from a dryer? With voices of the ones I loved, great loves and small loves, train wheels, crickets, clock-ticks, thunder – where will they, when in fragrant, tumbled heat they also leave?

from "Nine Pebbles" Library Book with Many Precisely Turned-Down Corners I unfold carefully the thoughts of one who has come before me, the way a listening dog's ears may be seen lifting to some sound beyond its person's quite understanding

I know there is a moment when sound slips down the torn lining of itself into silence, is carried unheard and secret in its own pocket. But the crimson birds could find no such escape, no means of slipping beyond themselves between the cracks of color and song to a white undiscovered silence.

An experimental physics lab is probably unlike any other room you've been in before. The lighting is harsh, of course, aggressively bright and beyond the reach of aesthetic concerns. There are sounds of machines, a harmonic hum, sometimes just from fans on computer equipment as opposed to any motorized parts. There's never any bespoke sound absorbers, so the machines have a sonic clarity that seems intentional, cranked up for some postindustrial experimental orchestra.

Laughter is the sound of the soul dancing. My soul probably looks like Fred Astaire.

When I answer, a piercing electronic shriek crashes out of the speakers. Warped digital feedback: the kind of thing Aphex Twin used to put on his records (Eleanor: I know you'll ask me to update this reference and make it a more current band. Sorry, but it sounded like Aphex Twin. Not my fault you're too young to remember him.)

And then I hear the sound, a sort of high-frequency humming, like a mosquito flying too close to my ear. I wave it off, but after a few seconds it's back again, a gray speck flitting around my peripheral vision, always just out of reach. And I think back to the doctor from the University of Pennsylvania and the research experiment that didn't actually happen. And it's the first night I feel like someone might be watching me.

Everything in our world is a waveform (sometimes called pattern, or sine wave signature) or can even be seen as sound. All things — your bodies, planets, absolutely everything — are waveforms. If you choose this particular way of looking at Reality and superimpose that view over the reality of the harmonics of music (an aspect of sound), we can begin to talk about different dimensions.

If it sounds good, it IS good.

And still the mad magnificent herald Spring assembles beauty from forgetfulness with the wild trump of April:witchery of sound and odour drives the wingless thing man forth into bright air,for now the red leaps in the maple's cheek,and suddenly by shining hordes in sweet unserious dress ascends the golden crocus from the dead.