Quotes About Music

I'll learn to work the saxophoneI'll play just what I feelDrink Scotch whiskey all night longAnd die behind the wheel

Reading music is the skill, while interpretation is the gift.

As I was a-walking one morning for pleasure,I spied a cowpuncher a-riding along.

Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little dogies,It's your misfortune and none of my own,Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little dogies,For you know Wyoming will be your new home.

Remember the Red River ValleyAnd the cowboy that loves you so true.

Au clair de la lune,Mon ami Pierrot,Prête-moi ta plumePour écrire un mot.

Ride a cockhorse to Banbury Cross,To see a fine lady upon a white horse;Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,She shall have music wherever she goes.

Tom, Tom, the piper's son,He learned to play when he was young.But all the tune that he could playWas "Over the hills and far away."

The farmer in the dell, the farmer in the dell,Heigho! the derry oh, the farmer in the dell.

Then blow ye winds, heigh-ho!A-roving I will go,I'll stay no more on England's shore,To hear the music play.I'm off on the morning trainTo cross the raging main,I'm taking a trip on a Government ship,Ten thousand miles away!

Oh, Shenandoah, I long to hear you,Way-hay, you rolling river!Oh, Shenandoah, I long to hear you,Ha-ha, we're bound away,'Cross the wide Missouri!

Oh, blow the man down, bullies, blow the man down!To me way-aye, blow the man down.Oh, blow the man down, bullies, blow him right down!Give me some time to blow the man down!

o afinador chegava na camioneta da carreira para consertar a harpa da dona Irene e horas num só acorde a aparafusar com o alicatezito melancolias erradas até que a vida no timbre que lhe pertencia e o tio emocionado - É exactamente o que eu sinto

Great Music, it said, and Great Poetry would like quieten Modern Youth down and make Modern Youth more Civilized. Civilized my syphilised yarbles.

Two or three notes of music can instantly make you feel sad or tense or afraid or angry. To do that in words is much more difficult.

Think of yourself in a concert hall listening to the strains of the sweetest music when you suddenly remember that you forgot to lock your car. You are anxious about the car, you cannot walk out of the hall and you cannot enjoy the music. There you have a perfect image of life as it is lived by most human beings.

The orchestra is within you and you carry it with you wherever you go. The things and people outside you merely determine what particular melody the orchestra will play. And when there is no one or nothing that has your attention the orchestra will play a music of its own; it needs no outside stimulation. You now carry in your heart a happiness that nothing outside of you can put there, and nothing can take away.

It is something that I discovered, a kind of symphony, a kind of orchestra that plays one melody in your presence, but when you depart, the orchestra doesn't stop. When I meet someone else, it plays another melody, which is also very delightful. And when I'm alone, it continues to play. There's a great repertoire, and it never ceases to play. That's what awakening is all about.

cosa. La sinfonía de la vida prosigue, pero tú no dejas de mirar atrás, de aferrarte a unos cuantos compases de la sinfonía, de cerrar tus oídos al resto de la música, produciendo con ello una disarmonía y un conflicto entre lo que la vida te ofrece y aquello a lo que tú te aferras. Y vienen a continuación la tensión y la ansiedad, que constituyen la muerte misma del amor y de la gozosa libertad que el amor conlleva.

What would the fearsome Lou Reed insist on? Boys? Girls? Drugs? No, kielbasa.

I've been getting into Nick Drake lately, the folk singer. Sad, gorgeous stuff.

It strikes Werner just then as wondrously futile to build splendid buildings, to make music, to sing songs, to print huge books full of colorful birds in the face of the seismic, engulfing indifference of the world—what pretensions humans have! Why bother to make music when the silence and wind are so much larger? Why light lamps when the darkness will inevitably snuff them?

wondrously futile to build splendid buildings, to make music, to sing songs, to print huge books full of colorful birds in the face of the seismic, engulfing indifference of the world—what pretensions humans have! Why bother to make music when the silence and wind are so much larger? Why light lamps when the darkness will inevitably snuff them?

Music spirals out of the radios, and it is splendid to drowse on the davenport, to be warm and fed, to feel the sentences hoist her up and carry her somewhere else.