Quotes About Music

never wrote a tune in my life," he said.137 "What do you mean by that?" asked Robins, surprised. "Those tunes are all in the air," Monroe replied. "I just happened to be the first one to pick them out.

High Lonesome: The Story ofBluegrass.

Ritzonia" was the epithet coined by Bernard Bernson, who sold Italian pictures to American millionaires, to describe the unreal, mortifying sameness of their luxury. "Ritzonia," he wrote in 1909, "carries its inmates like a wishing carpet from place to place, the same people, the same meals, the same music. Within its walls you might be at Peking or Prague or Paris or London and you would never know where.

music is power and musicians wield control. It is music that can pierce the heart in an instant and cleanse the soul. Music can calm and it can excite. It can make a strong man weep and a sad man smile. That is power, and we hold that power in our hands.

If you are a scientist or engineer, an architect or designer, a writer, artist, or musician, or if your creativity is a key factor in your work in business, education, health care, law, or some other profession, you are a member.

Attempt to be creative for the joy it brings… Select something like music, dance, sculpture, or poetry. Being creative will help you enjoy life. It engenders a spirit of gratitude. It develops latent talent, sharpens your capacity to reason, to act, and to find purpose in life. It dispels loneliness and heartache. It gives a renewal, a spark of enthusiasm, and zest for life.

Attempt to be creative for the joy it brings . . . select something like music, dance, sculpture, or poetry. Being creative will help you enjoy life. It engenders a spirit of gratitude.

Let me silent be, For silence is the speech of love, The music of the spheres above.

For it's always fair weatherWhen good fellows get togetherWith a stein on the table and a good song ringing clear.

The soul is but senses catching fire, Marvellous music of the body's lyre, - The angel senses are the silver strings Stirred by the breath of some unknown desire.

Glorious is the Voice of Man, and sweet is the music of the harp.

In dignity and harmony, in rich beauty rose their voices now employed in noble purpose. Glorious is the Voice of Man, and sweet is the music of the harp.

The beauty and music...It is a call...And some are not strong.

O, Voice of Man, organ of most lovely might.

Sing, then. Sing, indeed, with shoulders back, and head up so that song might go to the roof and beyond to the sky. Mass on mass of tone, with a hard edge, and rich with quality, every single note a carpet of colour woven from basso profundo, and basso, and baritone, and alto, and tenor, and soprano, and alto and mezzo, and contralto, singing and singing, until life and all things living are become a song. O, Voice of Man, organ of most lovely might.

That wind of terrible and jealous beauty blowing over me—that dark fire, that music …

At school we practiced for the Christmas program all month long. Miss Butler couldn't sing either, but she was a feisty director. . . . She took the Christmas program personally, as teachers do.

Music forecasts the past, recalls the future. Now and then the difference falls away, and in one simple gift of circling sound, the ear solves the scrambled cryptogram. One abiding rhythm, present and always, and you're free. But a few measures more, and the cloak of time closes back around you.

Music is a system of proportions in the service of a spiritual impulse.

Music forecasts the past, recalls the future. Now and then the difference falls away, and in one simple gift of circling sound, the ear solves the scrambled cryptogram. One abiding rhythm, present and always, and you're free.

He will love this music to death. In a few more years, he'll snort at its sentiment and mock its stirring progressions. Once you've loved like that, the only safe haven is resentment.

The thing about music was that you never knew the shape of anyone's desire.

The prose can be brutally beautiful. But the semester starts, you fall in love, get deflowered, watch Kennedy die and the Beatles invade, get high to listen to Coltrane, and discover Heller, Ellison, Ferlighetti, and Bellow -- writing that flows across the page in huge bright swaths that you didn't know English could permit.

We are made for art . . . The moment Maddy took up the tendril phrase, Els knew she was as dear to him as his own life. Talons gripped his ribs, and he felt a joy bordering on panic. He needed to know how this woman would unfold. He needed to write music that would settle into her range like frost on fields. They'd spend their years together, grow old, get sick, die in shared bewilderment.