Quotes About Voice

Why should I be expected to shut up about everything I believe in?

Books can offer a counter narrative—another story to the one we think we know. Story is told in a voice. The voice of Bastard Out of Carolina is that of a young girl who has just lost her mother and her sense of any real hope or justice. You don't know who she is until the story ends, and I always intended for the ending to make the reader angry.

I," said Lymond, in the voice unmistakably his which honeyed his most lethal thoughts, "I am a narwhal looking for my virgin. I have sucked up the sea like Charybdis and failing other entertainment will spew it three times daily, for a fee.

Hold your pen and spare your voice.

Could be. I'm a pretty dangerous dude when I'm cornered." "Yeah," said the voice from under the table, "you go to pieces so fast people get hit by the shrapnel.

That sounds perfectly reasonable …" he said in a reassuring tone of voice, wondering who he was trying to reassure.

The voice was deep and quiet. In other circumstances it would even be described as soothing. There is, however, nothing soothing about being addressed by a disembodied voice out of nowhere, particularly when you are, like Zaphod Beeblebrox, not at your best and hanging from a ledge eight stories up a crashed building.

They plunged through heavy walls of sound, mountains of archaic thought, valleys of mood music, bad shoe sessions and footling bats and suddenly heard a girl's voice.

Is that robot yours?" he said. "No," came a thin metallic voice from the crater, "I'm mine.

Arthur! You're safe! A voice cried. Am I? said Arthur, rather startled. Oh, good.

He hadn't realized that life speaks with a voice to you, a voice that brings you answers for the questions you continually ask of it, had never consciously detected it or recognized its tones until it now said something it had never said to him before, which was yes.

Excuse me, said the owner of the metal hand in a voice that would have made an insect of a more sentimental disposition collapse in tears. This was not such an insect, and it couldn't stand robots. Yes, sir, it snapped, can I help you? I doubt it, said Marvin.

Her laughter seemed to discharge something in the atmosphere. From somewhere at the back of the crowd a single voice started to sing a tune that would have enabled Paul McCartney, had he written it, to buy the world.

Where on Betelgeuse is that robot? Asked Ford. Perhaps he's behind one of these doors, said Arthur in his best 'I'll offer a solution but someone else can follow it up type voice.

He hadn't realized that life speaks with a voice to you, a voice that brings you answers to the questions you continually ask of it, had never consciously detected it or recognized its tones until it now said something it had never said to him before, which was "yes.

He pointed down into the crater. 'Is that robot yours?' he said. 'No,' came a thin metallic voice from the crater, 'I'm mine.' 'If you'd call it a robot,' muttered Arthur. 'It's more a sort of electronic sulking machine.' 'Bring it,' said the old man.

The cheery quality of Ford's voice was beginning to grate on the barman's ears. It sounded like someone relentlessly playing the kazoo during one of the more somber passages of a war requiem.

Zaphod! Wake up!" "Mmmmmwwwwwerrrr?" "Hey, come on, wake up." "Just let me stick to what I'm good at, yeah?" muttered Zaphod, and rolled away from the voice back to sleep. "Do you want me to kick you?" said Ford. "Would it give you a lot of pleasure?" said Zaphod, blearily. "No." "Nor me. So what's the point? Stop bugging me." Zaphod curled himself up.

Zaphod! Wake up!' 'Mmmmmwwwwwerrrrr?' 'Hey, come on, wake up.' 'Just let me stick to what I'm good at, yeah?' muttered Zaphod and rolled away from the voice back to sleep.

Please relax," said the voice pleasantly, like a stewardess in an airliner with only one wing and two engines, one of which is on fire, "you are perfectly safe.

What was unspeakable found voice and its bleating froze the air for a moment hacked from the fabric of time as the secret of all stabbed at his ears.

Six silent people in a room got me to thinking about the voice we hear in our heads when we read, the universal narrator's voice you may well be hearing right now. Whose voice *is* it you're hearing? It's not your own, is it? I didn't think so. It never is. So I posed the question out loud..." ...When you read a book, whose voice is it you hear inside your head? It's certainly not my own, said Harj, and the others chimed in with the same claim. Then whose it?

Poetry] is the liquid voice that can wear through stone.

A people's wrath voiced abroad bringeth grave Danger, no less than public curse pronounced.