…So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky
If you wanted candles and romantic music, then you wouldn’t have chosen me.” “Maybe I didn’t choose,” she dared. “Maybe it just happened.
A single radio post still heard him. The only link between him and the world was a wave of music, a minor modulation. Not a lament, no cry, yet purest of sounds that ever spoke despair.
The only candidate I'd allow to play my music would be Bigfoot, and unless we're talking about foraging for squirrels, he's notoriously apolitical.
I want the gift of a guitar—no strings attached. I want your love to also have no strings attached—and be just as musical.
And my experience in the music scene had shown me that there were places for places in the world where misfits were welcome.
I'm turning into an old man. I own four pairs of oxfords, my stories get a little long winded, and my neighbors play their music too loud.
Even from far away, I could see people being chased by hellhounds, burned at the stake, forced to run naked through cactus patches or listen to opera music.
I discovered the miracle that all things that sound are music, including the dishes and silverware in the dishwasher, as long as they fulfill the illusion of showing us where life is heading.
I needed another basis for musical structure. This I found in sound's duration parameter, sound's only parameter which is present even when no sound is intended.
When we feel, a kind of lyric is sung in our heart. When we think, a kind of music is played in our mind. In harmony, both create a beautiful symphony of life.
No matter how corrupt, greedy, and heartless our government, our corporations, our media, and our religious & charitable institutions may become, the music will still be wonderful.
I MAY HAVE ALLOWED MYSELF SOME FLICKER OF EMOTION IN THE RECENT PAST, said Death, BUT I CAN GIVE IT UP ANY TIME I LIKE.
The Guti were a band of mountain barbarians. It's always the way, isn't it? Everything is blamed on 'the barbarians
The most wretched people in the world are those who tell you they like every kind of music 'except country.
They say that the eyes of some paintings can follow you around the room, a fact that I doubt, but I am wondering whether some music can follow you for ever.
A fine work of art - music, dance, painting, story - has the power to silence the chatter in the mind and lift us to another place.
Good God! Think of listening to Wagner for a whole fortnight with a woman who takes about as much interest in music as a tone-deaf newt - that would be fun!
Then the singing enveloped me. It was furry and resonant, coming from everyone's very heart. There was no sense of performance or judgment, only that the music was breath and food.
I like music,' she said slowly, 'because when I hear it, I...I lose myself within myself if that makes any sense. I become empty and full all at once.
All my parents' music came from greatest hits albums. It was like the thought of getting even one bum track was too much for them to handle.
