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Songs Quotes

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Songs Quotes

“The songs transported her backwards in time, to when she first wrote them. As each one melted into the next, as her voice sang lyrics and melodies from her past, memories burst like colors across a blank canvas. Because inside each and every one of these songs---songs she'd written before she ever left Edgewood---memories were hidden. Emeline choked on them. Hot tears burned in her eyes as she tapped the next file, and the next, racing through songs and, with them, memories that had been stolen from her. Images of a younger Sable flashed before her eyes, interwoven with a younger Rooke. And someone else. Hawthorne. He was everywhere, with his dark hair and strange eyes. Her songs were so full of him, Emeline felt like she was drowning in him. Hawthorne, sitting next to the fire, reading a book. Hawthorne, shucking off his shirt and diving into a moonlit pond. Hawthorne, climbing in through her bedroom window. Kissing her in the dark. She'd embedded him inside her music. Because songs were never just songs for Emeline. They were capsules, each one containing a moment trapped inside it. As the next one started to play through her headphones, an image of a tree rose up in her mind. Emeline could see its thirsty roots; the twisting, twirling gray-brown bark; the gnarly branches stretching towards the sky. A silent sentinel, standing guard at the edge of the woods. Her tree.”

RememberingSongsPast MemoriesChildhood SweetheartsHawthorn Tree
Book:Edgewood
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“I had no songs in my repertoire for commercial radio anyway. Songs about debauched bootleggers, mothers that drowned their own children, Cadillacs that only got five miles to the gallon, floods, union hall fires, darkness and cadavers at the bottom of rivers weren't for radiophiles. There was nothing easygoing about the folk songs I sang. They weren't friendly or ripe with mellowness. They didn't come gently to the shore. I guess you could say they weren't commercial. Not only that, my style was too erratic and hard to pigeonhole for the radio, and songs, to me, were more important that just light entertainment. They were my preceptor and guide into some altered consciousness of reality, some different republic, some liberated republic. Greil Marcus, the music historian, would some thirty years later call it "the invisible republic." Whatever the case, it wasn't that I was anti-popular culture or anything and I had no ambitions to stir things up. i just thought of popular culture as lame as hell and a big trick. It was like the unbroken sea of frost that lay outside the window and you had to have awkward footgear to walk on it. I didn't know what age of history we were in nor what the truth of it was. Nobody bothered with that. If you told the truth, that was all well and good and if you told the un-truth, well, that's still well and good. Folk songs taught me that.”

CultureRadioEntertainmentDylanLyricsSongsFolkBob DylanCommercial
Book:Chronicles, Volume One
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“Is it possible that the Pentateuch could not have been written by uninspired men? that the assistance of God was necessary to produce these books? Is it possible that Galilei ascertained the mechanical principles of 'Virtual Velocity,' the laws of falling bodies and of all motion; that Copernicus ascertained the true position of the earth and accounted for all celestial phenomena; that Kepler discovered his three laws—discoveries of such importance that the 8th of May, 1618, may be called the birth-day of modern science; that Newton gave to the world the Method of Fluxions, the Theory of Universal Gravitation, and the Decomposition of Light; that Euclid, Cavalieri, Descartes, and Leibniz, almost completed the science of mathematics; that all the discoveries in optics, hydrostatics, pneumatics and chemistry, the experiments, discoveries, and inventions of Galvani, Volta, Franklin and Morse, of Trevithick, Watt and Fulton and of all the pioneers of progress—that all this was accomplished by uninspired men, while the writer of the Pentateuch was directed and inspired by an infinite God? Is it possible that the codes of China, India, Egypt, Greece and Rome were made by man, and that the laws recorded in the Pentateuch were alone given by God? Is it possible that Æschylus and Shakespeare, Burns, and Beranger, Goethe and Schiller, and all the poets of the world, and all their wondrous tragedies and songs are but the work of men, while no intelligence except the infinite God could be the author of the Pentateuch? Is it possible that of all the books that crowd the libraries of the world, the books of science, fiction, history and song, that all save only one, have been produced by man? Is it possible that of all these, the bible only is the work of God?”

LightInspirationScienceFictionProgressBooksBibleIndiaTragedyMathematicsIntelligenceChinaMathExperimentsWriterChemistryRomePoetsEgyptGreeceNewtonPioneersShakespeareFranklinSongsLibrariesWilliam ShakespeareDiscoveriesThe BibleEuclidGoetheInventionsOpticsCopernicusDescartesKeplerIsaac NewtonLaws Of MotionGalileoLeibnizBurnsJames WattSchillerTheory Of GravityAeschylusJohannes KeplerNicolaus CopernicusPentateuchBenjamin FranklinGalileo GalileiRobert BurnsWattMorseGottfried LeibnizGottfried Wilhelm LeibnizJohann Wolfgang Von GoetheRené DescartesCavalieriPneumaticsAlessandro VoltaBerangerBonaventura CavalieriBonaventura Francesco CavalieriFultonGalvaniGottfried Von LeibnizGottfried Wilhelm Von LeibnizHydrostaticsJohann Von GoetheLuigi Aloisio GalvaniLuigi GalvaniPierre Jean De BérangerRichard TrevithickRobert FultonSamuel Finley Breese MorseSamuel MorseTheory Of Universal GravitationTrevethickVoltaÆSchylus
Book:Some Mistakes of Moses
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“All of the creatures were staring fixedly at Boots. She was standing on the back of her loyal cockroach friend, Temp, smack in the middle of the octagon, singing "The Itsy-Bisty Spider" at the top of her lungs. The green spider, to whom the song principially was directed, seemed to be cringing. Boots was somewhat off-key, but Gregor was pretty sure it was the loudness that was making the arachnid hunch down and contract. "She has been going on like this for hours," whispered Nerissa. "Days more like it," said Ripred in disgust. "Next I will sing one for you!" announced Boots, pointing at the bat, who actually flinched.”

HumorBootsSongsSpiderRipred
Book:Gregor and the Code of Claw
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“It was easier to trust Siddhartha when he was a stranger. It was easier to trust him when he didn’t talk to me. It was easier with the distance. On this trip, when things will be real, and he’ll be in close proximity, I will not be able to make him the dream angel of my life. On this trip, I’ll have to see the real him, whoever he is, maybe just the opposite of what I imagined, maybe abusive, or a fraud, or a pervert. I don’t know, but now I’m afraid maybe after this trip, when I’ll see the real him, maybe he’ll take away from me the whole idea of Siddhartha I have in my mind.”

LoveRomantic ComedySongsRoad Trips
Book:That’ll Be Our Song
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“I never have time to write anymore. And when I do I only write about how I never have time. It's work and it's money and I've written more lists than songs lately. I stay up all night to do all these things I need to do, be all these things I want to be, playing with shadows in the darkness that shouldn't be able to exist. Empty bottles and cigarettes while watching the sunrise, why do I complain? I have it all, everything I ever asked for.”

WritingPoetryNightTimeMoneyDarknessPoemComplainingPoemsWritersBottlesPoetsSunriseWriteShadowsSongsComplainCigarettesStaying Up
Book:Empty Roads & Broken Bottles: in search for The Great Perhaps
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“The rest of the evening passed agreeably: the crew had their games on the main deck, resigning themselves to Sirs and dice now that dancing was out, those who would go ashore to enjoy the dining halls and tea houses went after their matches were lost, and those who remained either took themselves off to an early rest or remained with the musicians, to sing out the remainder of the evening by way of a few round songs, calling out verses in melodic dissonance, singing the history of Good Marrie the Whore and though there were “Ten hands in her purse, there was still room for one more!”,”

FantasyHumourSongsPiratesShanties
Author:Michelle Franklin
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“My neighbourhood has been filled with arts, songs, and dance. The gipsy boys were playing guitars and fiddles Craving emotions at the gates of our blurry days. The gipsy girls taught us how to shift graciously Within music charm, depicting wonderful stories All through ideas and emotions. Their colourful skirts rounding circles in delight Brought love from the gods Straight in our hearts.”

BoysEmotionsDanceGirlsSongsFiddleArtsNeighbourhoodGuitarsGipsy
Book:Love is Young: Poems
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“For everyone out there, who is watching your loved ones dancing with someone else, for the songs that you had written for them. Remember this. Not everyone can come up with beautiful compositions. It takes a heart that knows no boundaries, and a soul that shines with a light, that can make even the gods go blind. They took away your song, but not your soul. Start writing the new ones, and you will eventually find someone who will sing every song written by you, beautifully, and only for you.”

LoveSoulGodTimeHeartbreakDanceBetrayalSingSongsReminder
Book:The Abandoned Paradise: Unraveling the beauty of untouched thoughts and dreams
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“We lived only to dance. What was the true characteristic of a queen, I wondered later on; and you could argue that forever. “What do we all have in common in this group?” I once asked a friend seriously, when it occurred to me how slender, how immaterial, how ephemeral the bond was that joined us; and he responded, “We all have lips.” Perhaps that is what we all had in common: no one was allowed to be serious, except about the importance of music, the glory of faces seen in the crowd. We had our songs, we had our faces! We had our web belts and painter’s jeans, our dyed tank tops and haircuts, the plaid shirts, bomber jackets, jungle fatigues, the all-important shoes.”

MusicGayDanceLgbtQueenSongs
Book:Dancer from the Dance
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“Yesterday it was sun outside. The sky was blue and people were lying under blooming cherry trees in the park. It was Friday, so records were released, that people have been working on for years. Friends around me find success and level up, do fancy photo shoots and get featured on big, white, movie screens. There were parties and lovers, hand in hand, laughing perfectly loud, but I walked numbly through the park, round and round, 40 times for 4 hours just wanting to make it through the day. There's a weight that inhabits my chest some times. Like a lock in my throat, making it hard to breathe. A little less air got through and the sky was so blue I couldn’t look at it because it made me sad, swelling tears in my eyes and they dripped quietly on the floor as I got on with my day. I tried to keep my focus, ticked off the to-do list, did my chores. Packed orders, wrote emails, paid bills and rewrote stories, but the panic kept growing, exploding in my chest. Tears falling on the desk tick tick tick me not making a sound and some days I just don't know what to do. Where to go or who to see and I try to be gentle, soft and kind, but anxiety eats you up and I just want to be fine. This is not beautiful. This is not useful. You can not do anything with it and it tries to control you, throw you off your balance and lovely ways but you can not let it. I cleaned up. Took myself for a walk. Tried to keep my eyes on the sky. Stayed away from the alcohol, stayed away from the destructive tools we learn to use. the smoking and the starving, the running, the madness, thinking it will help but it only feeds the fire and I don't want to hurt myself anymore. I made it through and today I woke up, lighter and proud because I'm still here. There are flowers growing outside my window. The coffee is warm, the air is pure. In a few hours I'll be on a train on my way to sing for people who invited me to come, to sing, for them. My own songs, that I created. Me—little me. From nowhere at all. And I have people around that I like and can laugh with, and it's spring again. It will always be spring again. And there will always be a new day.”

ArtInspirationHappinessJoyHopeSoundHurtMusicFocusSadnessSkyTearsFineBalanceLoversWalkingGratitudeSadAnxietySpringSingingOkayMadnessGratefulMental HealthDrinkingAlcoholCoffeeLovelyRecoveryWell BeingWellnessSmokingHopefulHopelessPanicFlowersCryingStarvingNew DaySelf DestructionSingSongsSelf HarmPanic AttacksChestEdPanic AttackParkA New DayBe Okay
Author:Charlotte Eriksson
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