Quotes About Music

Within the building the trio broke into Suppe's Light Calvary. Nicole took advantage if this to stand up and the impression of her youth beauty grew on Dick until it welled up inside him in a compact paroxysm of emotion. She smiled, a moving childish smile that was like all the lost youth in the world.

Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again.

Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air.

The thin tunes, holding lost times and future hopes in liaison, twisted upon the Valais night.

I spent my Saturday nights in New York, because those gleaming, dazzling parties of his were with me so vividly that I could still hear the music and the laughter, faint and incessant, from his garden, and the cars going up and down his drive.

She hurried into a new spring evening dress of the frailest fairy blue. In the excitement of seeing herself in it, it seemed as if she had shed the old skin of winter and emerged a shining chrysalis with no stain; and going downstairs her feet fell softly just off the beat of the music from below. It was a tune from a play she had seen a week ago in New York, a tune with a future...

The voluptuous chords of the wedding march done in blasphemous syncopation issued in a delirious blend from the trombones and saxophones--and

Daisy chantonnait avec l'orchestre, un murmure voilé, cadencé, et elle donnait à chaque mot un sens qu'il n'avait jamais eu, qu'il n'aurait jamais plus. Quand la mélodie montait vers l'aigu, sa voix se brisait doucement, pour reprendre aussitôt sur un ton plus bas, un ton de contralto, et l'air se chargeait, à chaque variation, d'une exquise bouffée de chaleur humaine.

There was music from my neighbor's house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars.

Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you - like music to the musician or Marxism to the communist - or else it is nothing, an empty, formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.

there are only a few obvious things that I notice as primarily beautiful: women, spring evenings, music at night, the sea;

No child ever receives a box of colored crayons and says, "What's the point? I can't draw." Nor does she reject a jar of modeling dough because sculpture is too complicated. If you give him a guitar, he gets sounds out of it without fuss. If you ask her to sing, she doesn't refuse to because she doesn't know the words or because she hasn't got a perfect voice: she simply takes a breath, opens her mouth and belts it out!

The band did a salute to Stephen Foster and played 'Beautiful Dreamer' and we formed a bed. Then we played 'My Old Kentucky Home' while the majorettes slowly pranced like horses. We finished with 'I Dream of Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair', we formed a comb. Miss Philpot is running out of ideas if you ask me.

the gods bless the lonesome through music and dance.

My soul is a hidden orchestra; I know not what instruments, what fiddlestrings and harps, drums and tambours I sound and clash inside myself. All I hear is the symphony.

La música, la luz de la luna y los sueños son mis armas mágicas.

My soul is a hidden orchestra; I know not what instruments, what fiddlestrings and harps, drums and tambours I sound and clash inside myself. All I hear is the symphony.

My soul is a hidden orchestra; I know not what instruments with fiddle-strings & harps, drums & tambourines, I sound & clash inside myself. All I hear is the symphony.

To write is to forget. Literature is the most agreeable way of ignoring life. Music soothes, the visual arts exhilarate, and the performing arts (such as acting and dance) entertain. Literature, however, retreats from life by turning it into a slumber. The other arts make no such retreat – some because they use visible and hence vital formulas, others because they live from human life itself.

Io mi siedo sulla soglia e immergo il mio sguardo e il mio udito nei colori e nei suoni del paesaggio e canto piano piano, per me soltanto, dei vaghi canti che compongo nell'attesa.

Grande é a poesia, a bondade e as danças… Mas o melhor do mundo são as crianças, Flores, música, o luar, e o sol, que peca Só quando, em vez de criar, seca.

Minha alma é uma orquestra oculta; não sei que instrumentos tangem e rangem, cordas e harpas, timbales e tambores, dentro de mim. Só me conheço como sinfonia. Fernando Pessoa (Bernardo Soares) in Livro do Desassossego

My soul is a hidden orchestra; I do not know what instruments, what violins and harps, drums and tambours, sound and clash inside me. I know myself only as a symphony.

To write is to forget. Literature is the pleasantest way of ignoring life. Music lulls us, the visual arts enliven us, the performing arts (such as dance and drama) entertain us.