Quotes About Music

Las palabras no siempre pueden hacer el trabajo para el que las necesitamos. La música existe para cuando nos fallan las palabras

Once, I sang colors to a blind man. Seven hours I played, but at the end he said he saw them, green and red and gold.

Lord but I dislike poetry. How can anyone remember words that aren't put to music?

A poet is a musician who can't sing. Words have to find a man's mind before they can touch his heart, and some men's minds are woeful small targets. Music touches their hearts directly no matter how small or stubborn the mind of the man who listens.

can find someone like that, someone who you can hold and close your eyes to the world with, then you're lucky. Even if it only lasts for a minute or a day. The image of them gently swaying to the music is how I picture love in my mind even after all these years.

And we sang! Her voice like burning silver, my voice an echoing answer. Savien sang solid, powerful lines, like branches of a rock-old oak, all the while Aloine was like a nightingale, moving in darting circles around the proud limbs of it.

I couldn't stand being near music and not be a part of it. It was like watching the woman you love bedding down with another man. No. Not really. It was like. . .

Words have to find a man's mind before they can touch his heart, and some men's minds are woeful small targets. Music touches their hearts directly no matter how small or stubborn the mind of the man who listens.

That is how I felt, watching the musicians play. I couldn't stand it. The everyday lack of my music was like a toothache I had grown used to. I could live with it. But having what I wanted dangled in front of me was more than I could bear.

Y la forma en que sujetaba el arpa entre sus piernas me hizo pensar en... bueno, en las cosas en que piensan continuamente los muchachos de quince años.

Cada mujer es como un instrumento, y espera que la entiendan, la amen y la toquen con delicadeza, para por fin hacer sonar su verdadera música.

Songs choose their hour and their own season. When your tune's tin, there is a reason. The tone of a tune is your heart's mettle, and there's no clear water from a muddy well. All you can do is let the silt settle, or you'll sound sour as a broken bell.

You are not wise enough to fear me as I should be feared. You do not know the first note of the music that moves me.

A veces un hombre disfruta oyendo una sinfonía. Otras le apetece más una giga. Con el amor pasa lo mismo. Cierto tipo de amor resulta adecuado para los mullidos almohadones de un claro crepuscular. Otro resulta natural en el desorden de las sábanas de una cama estrecha en el último piso de una posada. Cada mujer es como un instrumento, y espera que la entiendan, la amen y la toquen con delicadeza, para por fin hacer sonar su verdadera música." Kvothe

Their voices were just murmurs, the distant music that a conversation makes when it's too dim for words.

Prefiero tocar canciones que divierten a mis amigos que complacer a quienes me juzgan basándose solo en habladurías" - Kvothe

Otras veces se había quedado así, vacía como una cáscara de huevo. Hueca y con sensación de presión en el pecho en una oscuridad furiosa, la primera vez que le había oído tocar. Antes de que él le regalara su nuevo nombre, dulce y perfecto. Un trozo de sol que nunca la abandonaba. Era un bocado de pan. Una flor en su corazón.

My fingers darted, then danced, then flew. I played hard as a hailstorm, like a hammer beating brass. I played soft as sun on autumn wheat, gentle as a single stirring leaf.

Hacía avanzar la canción despacio, pero no pesadamente. La tocaba con la lentitud de un beso lujurioso. Y no es que en esa época de mi vida yo supiera mucho de besos. Pero viéndola allí de pie, con los brazos alrededor del arpa, concentrada, con los ojos entrecerrados y los labios ligeramente fruncidos, supe que quería que algún día me besaran con ese cuidado lento y deliberado.

La música siempre ha sido el mejor remedio para mis bajones de ánimo

I sat still as stone with my fingers aching. I wanted to play, not listen. Want isn't strong enough a word. I was hungry for it, starved. I'm not proud of the fact that I thought about stealing his lute and leaving in the dark of the night.

I was so deeply in the music that I couldn't have told you where it stopped and my blood began.

You see, a laurel needs rain to grow. I can't do much about that. But I can keep that rain off a few musician's heads, can't I?" A sly smile wound its way onto his face. "So God will tend the laurels and keep them wet. And I will tend the players and keep them dry. And wiser minds than mine will decide when to bring the two together.

It is easier to understand if you think of it in terms of music. Sometimes a man enjoys a symphony. Elsetimes he finds a jig more suited to his taste. The same holds true for lovemaking. One type is suited to the deep cushions of a twilight forest glade. Another comes quite naturally tangled in the sheets of narrow beds upstairs in inns. Each woman is like an instrument, waiting to be learned, loved, and finely played, to have at last her own true music made.