Quotes About Silence

Silence thronged the room, and he was aware of the focused scrutiny of the three people who confronted him.

Where have you gone, O noble lords of the plain? Time has erased your footprints with the passing seasons' rain. Your voices have now been silenced to no longer echo in the hills. The battles are but memories when you watched your lifeblood spill. It is we who are the losers; it is we who bear the shame. O mighty Blackfoot warrior, only your legend remains the same. Constance O'Banyon

You never have to apologize for the thing you don't say.

But Alberta sat there wretchedly. God knows who put the words into her mouth. They were not her own. They were foreign to her, stupid words behind which she hid herself. Her own never saw the light of day, they died unborn or withered on her tongue and were born distorted. She was disabled, she was without the use of speech, she would die of muteness.

For a moment they all stood silent. The departure of this autumn ship gave rise to many different thoughts. Something came out of hiding in the most hardened.

Sometimes Alberta felt as if there were a conspiracy against her, as if the whole world were in agreement not to say a word. A foolish desire to shake people – But speak out, can't you – would come over her. If she did not do so, it was because we really can remain on the verge of action for a long time without doing anything.

Between them there was an aching void of forever-unspoken words - things that couldn't quite be said by either of them, perhaps things that couldn't be said at all. They were so close to each other that they could get no closer. This created enormous distance, which was heart-breaking but unutterable.

Music at its best...is the grand archeology into and transfiguration of our guttural cry, the great human effort to grasp in time our deepest passions and yearnings as prisoners of time. Profound music leads us--beyond language--to the dark roots of our scream and the celestial heights of our silence.

It had grown darker now; it was full night already, with the swiftness of the mountainous latitudes. The square of sky over the patio was soft and dark as indigo velour, with magnificent stars like many-legged silver spiders festooned on its underside. Below them the white roses gleamed phosphorescently in the starlight, with a magnesium-like glow. There was a tiny splash from the depths of the well as a pebble or grain of dislodged earth fell in. ("The Moon Of Montezuma")

After that there was silence for a while, only the sound of the shovel biting into the earth and the hissing splatter of the loose dirt. They stood him up, his back to the well. In the dark, desperate sky, just above the scalloped line the treetops made, three stars formed a pleading little constellation. No one looked at them, no one cared. This was the time for death, not the time for mercy. ("The Number's Up")

The shears found his throat this time. He fell down on top of them and was silent. Something dark like mucilage glistened where he lay. She had jumped back - not in remorse, but to keep the bottom of her skirt clear of his blood. ("I'm Dangerous Tonight")

We said a lot of things; we said nothing.

Then without any warning the car stopped. They were there. "The ride's over," someone said. "End of the ride." For a moment nobody got out. They just sat there. The driver cut the ignition, and after that there was silence. Complete, uncanny silence, more frightening than the most threatening noise or violence could have been. Night silence. A silence that had death in it. ("The Number's Up")

And while from inside we would hear coughs and stirrings, there was never a rustle in the listeners out the door.

Kapteyn appeared with Betsie in the dining room door. Her lips were swollen and puffy, a bruise was darkening on her cheek. She half fell into the chair next to mine. "Oh Betsie! He hurt you!" "Yes." She dabbed at the blood on her mouth. "I feel so sorry for him." Kapteyn whirled, his white face even paler. "Prisoners will remain silent!" he shrieked.

We had had many Jewish children over a night or several nights at the Beje and even the youngest had developed the uncanny silence of small hunted things.

God is often silent when we prefer that he speak and he interrupts us when we prefer that he stay silent. His ways are not our ways. To live with the sacred God of creation means that we conduct our lives with a God who does not explain himself to us. It means that we worship a God who is often mysterious - too mysterious to fit our formulas for better living. It means that God is not our best friend our secret lover or our good-luck charm. He is God.

I love you, I said, but not out loud.

As my dear wife occasionally reminds me: "Never miss an opportunity to shut the fuck up.

Daniel? Daniel...of what use are the bones of saints? Of what great interest to me are their dusted stories of day?" I stand at a dreadful distance. He speaks, "Silent stones of granite hue; enveloped now in sacred dew. Speak somber words of restless hope... of resurrection." I hear the hushings of the wind in a rhythmic silence, and turn to see a friar's lantern on a distant ridge.

Be careful what you say and who you say it in front of in this place, every ear is guaranteed to have a running mouth.

There wasn't anything more to say, so I didn't. That's the thing about comforting—it's almost more important to know when not to talk.

noise and come

Bolt actions speak louder than words.