music

Words are music to the ears, alone or together, with or without melody.

It wasn't supposed to. It was just supposed to stop you from hurting yourself._ __t helps__ __o it doesn't. It just pushes it away temporarily. Just like the booze._ __ut I need__ __ou need to let yourself feel. Feel it, own it. Then move on._ __ou make it sound so easy._ Bitterness drips from each syllable. __t__ not. It__ the fucking hardest thing a person can do._ I smooth a damp strand out of her face and away from my mouth. __t__ the hardest fucking thing. It__ why we drink and do drugs and fight. It__ why I play music and build engines.

You stuttered like a kaleidoscope, because you knew too many words.

I am a confused Musician who got sidetracked into this goddamn Word business for so long that I never got back to music - except maybe when I find myself oddly alone in a quiet room with only a typewriter to strum on and a yen to write a song. Who knows why? Maybe I just feel like singing - so I type.These quick electric keys are my Instrument, my harp, my RCA glass-tube microphone, and my fine soprano saxophone all at once. That is my music, for good or ill, and on some nights it will make me feel like a god. Veni, Vidi, Vici... That is when the fun starts...

Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather an other chaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words?

In politics no permanent friends, no permanent enemies but permanent interest.

...the mode by which he "heard" the universe and projected it far beyond himself. Perhaps it was in this, I said to Albertine, this unknown quality of a unique world which no other composer had ever yet revealed, that the most authentic proof of genius lies, even more than in the content of the work itself. "Even in literature?_ Albertine inquired. __ven in literature._ And thinking again of the sameness of Vinteuil__ works, I explained to Albertine that the great men of letters have never created more than a single work, or rather have never done more than refract through various media an identical beauty which they bring into the world. __f it were not so late, my sweet,_ I said to her, __ would show you this quality in all the writers whose works you read while I__ asleep, I would show you the same identity as in Vinteuil. These key-phrases, which you are beginning to recognise as I do, my little Albertine, the same in the sonata, in the septet, in the other works, would be, say for instance in Barbey dAurevilly, a hidden reality revealed by a physical sign, the physiological blush...

You probably think of the orchestra as a heterogeneous mass of instrumentsproducing a confused agreeable massof sound. You do not listen for details because you have never trained your ears to listen to details.

I've always felt that the performance of a raag resembles a novel - or at least the kind of novel I'm attempting to write. You know,' he continued, extemporizing as he went along, 'first you take one note and explore it for a while, then another to discover its possibilities, then perhaps you get to the dominant, and pause for a bit, and it's only gradually that the phrases begin to form and the tabla joins in with the beat...and then the more brilliant improvisations and diversions begin, with the main theme returning from time to time, and finally it all speeds up, and the excitement increases to a climax.

The embrace of present and past time, in which English antiquarianism becomes a form of alchemy, engenders a strange timelessness. It is as if the little bird which flew through the Anglo-Saxon banqueting hall, in Bede's Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum, gained the outer air and became the lark ascending in Vaughan Williams's orchestral setting. The unbroken chain is that of English music itself.

Every man's work, whether it be literature, or music or pictures or architecture or anything else, is always a portrait of himself.

My definition of an intellectual is someone who can listen to the William Tell Overture without thinking of the Lone Ranger" - Billy Connolly

You know, just because you think bubblegum pop on the radio represents all that is wrong with society, that doesn__ mean there__ not someone out there who needs that shitty pop song. Maybe that shitty pop song makes them feel good, about themselves and the world. And as long as that shitty pop song doesn__ infringe upon your rights to rock out to, I don__ know, Subway Sect, or Siouxsie and the Banshees, or whichever old-ass band it is you worship, then who cares?

You might say __o, you will never do that, that__ not you, not who I know, not who I thought you were_, and I will say "watch me".

believe me...Nothing is bad, just proove it as right

What that song? I ast. Sound low down dirty to me. Like what the preacher tells you its sin to hear. Not to mention sing.She hum a little more. Something come to me, she say. Something I made up. Something you help scratch out my head.

«Eliza opened her furry black satchel. She pulled out a portable CD player. __av, look here. Once, I loved this machine. Because it plays all my CDs. But nobody buys music in the stores any more! Even I don__ pay for music, and I__ rich! I__ carrying a zombie in my purse!___ell, yes, that platform is obsolete now, but a new business model will arise for music.___o it won__! That__ a lie! Nobody will ever pay! The music business is the walking dead! Don__ lie to me._ Eliza stuffed her doomed device back in her furry purse.Gavin rubbed his chin. __our Digital Native generation really has some issues.__

... but I believe that music can change a life, because it changed mine.