Quotes About Music

The ancient Irish social system was systematically attacked, traditional songs and music forbidden, whole clans exterminated, and the remainder brutalized. A "wild Irish" reservation was even attempted. The

I wish that, at the end of life, when things were truly done, there was something to look forward to. Something more pleasure-oriented. Perhaps opium, or heroin. So you become addicted. So what? All-you-can-eat ice cream parlors for the extremely aged. Big art pictures books and music. EXTREME palliative care, for when you've had it with everything else: the x-rays, the MRIs, the boring food, and the pills that don't do anything at all. Would that be so bad?

Como dissemos em nosso manifesto, a música não é absolutamente a mesma em todas as nações. Sujeita às grandes regras da arte, ela se modifica no estilo e no gosto em cada nação, segundo as inspirações da natureza do país, os costumes, a índole e as tendências do povo.

Les métaphysiciens sont des musiciens sans dons musicaux.

Metaphysiker sind Musiker ohne musikalische Fähigkeit.

Singer and tailor am I– Doubled the joys that I know– Proud of my lilt to the sky, Proud of the house that I sew– Over and under, so weave I my music–so weave I the house that I sew.

O it's Tommy this, an'Tommy that, an' Tommy, go away: But it's Thank you, Mister Adkins, when the band begins to play...

Sparrows and pigeons and a blackbird were celebrating the morning in the courtyard.

He would sit singing, his cheeks turning red above his whiskers; but his voice always came out deep and steady, like the sound of long ago, if long ago could make a sound instead of being forever lost and silent.

Music is like outer space, Benny. No need for flying to some other place. Everything is so beautiful right here.

Osmium is the heaviest matter in the world, and now that I think about it, that's what my dad needed. He needed superheavy shoes made with osmium soles to hold him down to earth. You know how he said that whole thing about how music was space, and he didn't need to fly off to some other place because everything was so beautiful right here

you're like the leader of a big brass band made up of all the jazzy stuff of the planet, and you're floating out there in space, standing on this great garbage heap of a world, with your hair slicked back and your natty suit and your stick up in the air, surrounded by all the eager things, and for one quick, beautiful moment, all their voices go silent, waiting till you bring your baton down. Music or madness. It's totally up to you.

Kenji knew people who knew how to party, and so when it was time to transport their friend's body to the crematorium, the musicians canceled the hearse and took matters into their own hands. Annabelle went along with them. The coffin was heavy, but Kenji added little to its weight, and so they were able to lift it, taking turns carrying it on their shoulders, New Orleans–style, through the narrow back alleys and the dark, rain-slick streets.

He said he didn't need religion because he had jazz.

Music or madness. It's totally up to you.

I wish you could have seen the kitchen when I was done: It looked like a hurricane had blown right in the door! But I cleaned it all up, and when Mother came home the whole house smelled warm and spicy, Bing Crosby was singing White Christmas on the radio, I was wearing a clean apron, and she called me her little homemaker. What would you think about tomato mincemeat cookies? I bet no one else will think of that!

We sat side by side on the swings. The creaking sound they made seemed sexier to me than a Jimi Hendrix guitar solo.

any pop song in this particular country, when sung by several citizens at once, tended to turn into a mindless celebration devoid of any genuine sense of melancholy.

The next four girls were led from the wall into the centre, where the red blended with the blue and settled into a respectable purple. Again the couples began absorbedly describing circles on the village-hall concrete to the beat of the song that the scrawny singer was enthusiastically belting out

A poet is an unhappy being whose heart it torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music.

Love is not the dying moan of a distant violin .. it's the triumphant twang of a bedspring

Another marvel: some one has me fast Within his ample palm; 'tis not a grasp Such as they use on earth, but all around Over the surface of my subtle being, As though I were a sphere, and capable To be accosted thus, a uniform And gentle pressure tells me I am not Self-moving, but borne forward on my way. And hark! I hear a singing; yet in sooth I cannot of that music rightly say Whether I hear, or touch, or taste the tones. Oh, what a heart-subduing melody!

Music, love, death. Certainly a triangle of sorts; maybe even an eternal one. The only people who can see the whole picture, he murmured, are the ones who step out of the frame. (The ground beneath her feet.)

I had become a kind of information magpie, gathering to myself all manner of shiny scraps of fact and hokum and books and art-history and politics and music and film, and developing, too, a certain skill in manipulating and arranging these pitiful shards so that they glittered and caught the light. Fool's gold, or priceless nuggets mined from my singular childhood's rich bohemian seam? I leave it to others to decide.