Quotes About Voices

Faintly as tolls the evening chime,Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.

The voices of the oppressed will be heard from their rubbled tombs.

The first thing they heard was the voices of an angry mob shouting "Salope! Salope!"—the

I like the noise of democracy.

Their thoughts flowed together in an incoherent torrent of relief and joy and delight, colliding, crashing, looping in a cascade of longing and explanations and desire as overwhelming, as drenching as the deluge of voices had been, but wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, and she was going under, she was going to drown.

Show tunes are great. Stephen Sondheim. Rodgers and Hammerstein. Wicked. Rent. The Music Man. Almost any musical will do. Except Cats." "Why? Doesn't it shut out the voices?" "No, it shuts them out fine. But it's a terrible musical.

her. I never felt properly sorry for schizophrenics, she thought, unable to escape the voices in their heads and fighting for their sanity with a maelstrom of noise all around them, making it impossible to think. No

The voices didn't join in this time, as she hadn't spoken, but to her surprise, they all thought in chorus." — LEWIS CARROLL, Through the Looking-Glass

Suttree eased himself down on the arm of the sofa and sipped his beer. He patted J-Bone on the back. The voices seemed to fade. He waved away the whiskeybottle with a smile. In this tall room, the cracked plaster sootstreaked with the shapes of laths beneath, this barrenness, this fellowship of the doomed. Where life pulsed obscenely fecund. in the drift of voices and the laughter and the reek of stale beer the Sunday loneliness seeped away.

Is there anything in the world better than words on the page? Magic signs, the voices of the dead, building blocks to make wonderful worlds better than this one, comforters, companions in loneliness. Keepers of secrets, speakers of the truth...all those glorious words.

No, it wasn't quite true that John had no conscience at all. Everyone had one. But there were many voices in his head that had an easier time reaching him: his ambition, his desire for fame and success—and for revenge.

They forked up in the air for him, like trees branching in the night, and rained down sparks. They roared and whispered with their crackling voices, they had danced when he said the word. The flames here were both tame and mutinous, strange, silent beasts that sometimes bit the hand that fed them. Only occasionally, on cold nights when there was nothing but the flames to stave off his loneliness, did he think he heard them calling to him, but they whispered words he didn't understand.

Meggie took her books whenever they went away. They were her home when she was somewhere strange – familiar voices, friends that never quarrelled with her, clever, powerful friends, daring and knowledgeable, tried and tested adventurers who had travelled far and wide.

I once knew an old man who used to tell stories at night by the fire. Stories about paradise. This is how he described it: carpets of moss, pools of cool water, flowers and sweet berries everywhere, trees growing up to the sky, and the voices of their leaves speaking to the wind above you. Can you hear them?

But the very voices that cry hail to this good work are, strange to relate, largely silent or antagonistic to the higher education of the Negro.

sounds as faint as the vanishing remembrance of voices in a dream

no place is more filled with imagined voices than a library.

I do know this—this right here is just prelude. Dress rehearsal. The intro. One of these days each one of us is going to get called up and given the chance to join our voices in a song we've never heard, yet one we've known our whole lives.

If you're having trouble making a distinction between the voices in your head, let me put it this way: there are two sources of supernatural power on this earth. Jesus and satan. If what you're hearing does not come from Jesus, then by definition, it does come from satan.

The record companies kept calling, and pretty soon I was letting the same anti-dad voices live rent-free in my mind. Fueling my discontent

Open a window in the SRO on a summer night and you can hear at least five dialects being spoken, the voices bouncing up and down the central interior courtyard, the courtyard in reality just a vertical column of interior-facing windows,

Their past is my present, and when I look at them I can hear their voices quite clearly, just the way they were, every one of them, every single one. I love the sound of children's voices, especially in the early morning, the sound of their half-whispered chatter and their secret laughter.

Of course everything is blooming most recklessly: if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.

It takes a thousand voices to tell a single story.