Sound Quotes (page 30)
I think Oscar Wilde wrote a poem about a robin who loved a white rose. He loved it so much that he pierced his breast and let his heart's blood turn the white rose red. Maybe this sounds very sentimental, but for anybody who has loved a career as much as I've loved mine, there can be no short cuts.
Mary Pickford
Ourchestra: So you haven't got a drum, just beat your belly. So I haven't got a horn-I'll play my nose. So we haven't any cymbals-We'll just slap our hands together, And though there may be orchestras. That sound a little better. With their fancy shiny instruments. That cost an awful lot-Hey, we're making music twice as good. By playing what we've got!
Shel Silverstein
The subtlest change in New York is something people don't speak much about but that is in everyone's mind. The city, for the first time in its long history, is destructible. A single flight of planes no bigger than a wedge of geese can quickly end this island fantasy, burn the towers, crumble the bridges, turn the underground passages into lethal chambers, cremate the millions. The intimation of mortality is part of New York now: in the sound of jets overhead, in the black headlines of the...
E. B. White
But we had with us, to keep and to care for, more than five hundred bruised bodies of men- men made in the image of God, marred by the hand of man and must we say in the name of God? And where is the reckoning for such things? And who is answerable? One might almost shrink from the sound of his own voice, which had launched into the palpitating air words of order- do we call it? - fraught with such ruin. Was it God's command we heard or His forgiveness we must forever implore?
Joshua Chamberlain
BUDGE (muffled)No, no, nono. NURSE BAKERI understand what you're trying to say. BUDGEA hideous scream. NURSE BAKERExactly. BUDGEA cry of desperation. NURSE BAKERPerfect. BUDGEA strangled sob. A plea torn from my throat. What sound can I make to convince you I'm not the one you want? A disconsolate sigh? Maybe that's what you want to hear. The smallest human moan imaginable. A whisper in a corner of an unlit room, with curtains blowing in the wind. NURSE BAKERWhat could be more touching?
Don DeLillo
What, are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica: Lock up my doors; and when you hear the drum. And the vile squealing of the wry-neck'd fife, Clamber not you up to the casements then, Nor thrust your head into the public street. To gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces, But stop my house's ears, I mean my casements: Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter
William Shakespeare