Quotes About Voice

1 Kings 19:11,12 KJV

Allá me oirás mejor. Estaré más cerca de ti. Encontrarás más cercana la voz de mis recuerdos que la de mi muerte, si es que alguna vez la muerte ha tenido alguna voz.

Déjenme aunque sea el derecho de pataleo que tienen los ahorcados!

No me oyes? --pregunté en voz baja. Y su voz me respondió: --Dónde estás? --Estoy aquí, en tu pueblo. Junto a tu gente. No me ves? --No, hijo, no te veo. Su voz parecía abarcarlo todo. Se perdía más de la tierra. --No te veo.

Me di cuenta que su voz estaba hecha de hebras humanas

Me di cuenta que su voz estaba hecha de hebras humanas, que su boca tenía dientes y una lengua que se trababa y destrababa al hablar, y que sus ojos eran como todos los ojos de la gente que vive sobre la tierra.

Allá me oirás mejor. Estaré más cerca de ti. Encontrarás más cercana la voz de mis recuerdos que la de mi muerte, si es que alguna vez la muerte ha tenido alguna voz».

Tendré que oírlo, hasta que se le muera su voz.

yet voice is something like the fingerprint of the writer—not the persona on the page but the writer with her own particular linguistic quirks, sentence rhythms, and recurring images. The memoirist needs to have this fingerprint too, even if she only speaks as herself.

a story can stay buried in my memory for years and years, but the minute it surfaces into consciousness as a story idea, it is likely to get lost. If I don't grab it as it begins to form itself as a narrative, it can become permanently erased, and even if I remember the general subject matter, the voice that started narrating in my mind eludes me.

Royce's eyes narrowed in discouragement at the thoght of having to sing to jenny. his deep bariton voice would surely bring every hound for miles to yap and nip at his heels.

How am I doing so far? she asked, forcing a cheerful lightness into her voice. You're doing very well, Nick's lazy voice mocked. I'm half convinced that I'm invisible.

Leave the star on top, said an achingly gen­tle, deep voice. There's al­ready one angel in the room.

You were wearing your hair up like that the day we left for Harbor Springs, he said, his deep voice pitched seductively low. I like it. In that case, Lauren said lightly, I'll start wearing it down. He grinned. So that's the way we're going to play it,is it? Play what? This little game we started yesterday. I am not playing your game, she said with quiet firmness. I do not want the prize.

How am I doing so far? she asked, forc­ing a cheer­ful light­ness into her voice. You're doing very well, Nick's lazy voice mocked. I'm half con­vinced that I'm in­vis­i­ble.

In Judaism, it is taught that there are three stages of grief to be endured. First there is weeping, for we all must weep for what we have lost. Second comes silence, for in the silence we understand solace, beauty, and comfort from something greater than ourselves. Third comes singing, for in singing we pour out our hearts and regain our voice.

Writing is the voice that calls us from dreams, that peeks out of the corner of our eyes when we think no one is looking, the longing that breaks out hearts even when we think we should be happiest, and to which we cannot give a name.

The inner wars, and the outer ones, go on while I pray and struggle; sometimes in the middle of a dark night of the soul I wonder how they became my wars to fight. And then I hear a voice that says, "Why not me?

In order to achieve escape velocity, we must learn to keep our own counsel, to move silently among doubters, to voice our plans only among our allies, and to name our allies accurately.

The clown performs mute rites, as poetry always celebrates some willfully silenced voice.

All the little Indians in a half circle around Aunt Emily are getting an imprinting that will last for life. The sound of her voice reading will condition how they look upon themselves and the world. It will become part of the loved ambience of Battell Pond, a glint in the chromatic wonder of childhood. These small sensibilities will never lose the images of dark woods and bright lake. Nature to them will always be beneficent and female.

She sang beyond the genius of the sea.The water never formed to mind or voice,Like a body wholly body, flutteringIts empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motionMade constant cry, caused constantly a cry,That was not ours although we understood,Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.

It was her voice that made The sky acutest at its vanishing. She measured to the hour its solitude. She was the single artificer of the world In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea, Whatever self it had, became the self That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we, As we beheld her striding there alone, Knew that there never was a world for her Except the one she sang and, singing, made.

Be the voice of night and Florida in my ear. Use dusky words and dusky images. Darken your speech. Speak, even, as if I did not hear you speaking, But spoke for you perfectly in my thoughts, Conceiving words, As the night conceives the sea-sounds in silence, And out of their droning sibilants makes A serenade.