60 Noise Quotes

The screech and mechanical uproar of the big city turns the citified head, fills citified ears - as the song of birds, wind in the trees, animal cries, or as the voices and songs of his loved ones once filled his heart. He is sidewalk-happy.

The bells they sound on Bredon And still the steeples hum. 'Come all to church, good people,' - Oh, noisy bells, be dumb; I hear you, I will come.

The journalists have constructed for themselves a little wooden chapel, which they also call the Temple of Fame, in which they put up and take down portraits all day long and make such a hammering you can't hear yourself speak.

The proliferation of mass graphomania among politicians, cab drivers, women on the delivery table, mistresses, murderers, criminals, prostitutes, police chiefs, doctors, and patients proves to me that every individual without exception bears a potential writer within himself and that all mankind has every right to rush out into the streets with a cry of 'We are all writers!' The reason is that everyone has trouble accepting the fact that he will disappear unheard of and unnoticed in an indifferent universe, and everyone wants to make himself into a universe of words before it's too late. Once the writer in every individual comes to life (and that time is not far off), we are in for an age of universal deafness and lack of understanding.

O solitude! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place.

Because half-a-dozen grasshoppers under a fern make the field ring with their importunate chink, whilst thousands of great cattle, reposed beneath the shadow of the British oak, chew the cud and are silent, pray do not imagine that those who make the noise are the only inhabitants of the field; that of course they are many in number; or that, after all, they are other than the little shrivelled, meagre, hopping, though loud and troublesome insects of the hour.

There is a kind of laughter that sickens the soul. Laughter when it is out of control: when it screams and stamps its feet, and sets the bells jangling in the next town. Laughter in all its ignorance and cruelty. Laughter with the seed of Satan in it. It tramples upon shrines; the belly-roarer. It roars, it yells, it is delirious: and yet it is as cold as ice. It has no humour. It is naked noise and naked malice.

The dogs did bark, the children screamed, Up flew the windows all; And every soul cried out, 'Well done!' As loud as he could bawl.

THE ROCK:'The Rock's not even listening to you! The Rock can't even hear himself talk, for Christ's sake...' MANKIND: 'Umm...roody poo!'

to a truck that roars by while he's filming: Get a muffler!

Some people want to express...apathy with noise and brutality...It's the want to transcend all that, to find some deeper essence in life that drives me.

My heart is torn with the sound of raucous voices, They shout from the slums, from the streets, from the crowded places, And tunes from the hurdy-gurdy that coldly rejoices Shoot arrows into my heart.

A chorus of elfin voices blowing about me Weaves to a babel of sound. Each cries a secret. I run among them, reach out vain hands, and drown.

The great pontiff took the floor to argue the case against me. I don't remember his harangue, because I was too horrified to understand such a discordant voice, and because he made his speech with a musical instrument so loud it deafened me. He had deliberately chosen a trumpet. The violence of its martial tone was supposed to make the people call for my death and to keep them from thinking rationally, as happens in our armies, where the din of trumpets and drums prevents the soldier from thinking about the importance of his life.

THE ROCK:'The Rock's not even listening to you! The Rock can't even hear himself talk, for Christ's sake...' MANKIND: 'Umm...roody poo!'

Then this song came on, I will never forget it, it was called 'The Funk Soul Brother' and I will always remember that because it was also all of the lyrics and er, it was that school of song writting you know very easy on the words in case they get wasted, I don't know what...theres a shortage and...it sounded like a million fire engines chasing ten million ambulances through a war zone and was played at a volume that made the empty chair beside me bleed. And it went, erm, 'Funk soul brother... right about now... yeah... it's the, it's the funk soul brother... check it out. It's, er, well... it's the funk soul brother, essentially. He's, er he's coming. He's coming at you. It's the, well... it's the funk soul brother.' And after a while, I began to penetrate the meaning of this song, you know? I gathered that somebody was about to arrive, and everybody else was terribly excited. Maybe he was bringing cake or something, they didn't say. But the thing was, you see, he wasn't there yet. Haha, that was the hook. I'm not saying it's a bad song, you know? Or anything like that. All I'm saying is that if you get, I don't know, a broom, say, and dip it in some brake fluid, put the other end up my arse, stick me on a trampoline in a moving lift, and I would write a better song on the walls.

It sounds like typewriters eating tinfoil, being kicked down some stairs.

they flock and they flee through the thunder of seem though the stars in their silence say Be.

At this display the elder and less attractive of the maidens fled, uttering loud and continuous cries of apprehension in order to conceal the direction of her flight.

What a blessing it would be if we could open and shut our ears as easily as we open and shut our eyes!

With patient inattention hear him prate.

Somebody was trying to tell me that CDs are better than vinyl because they don't have any surface noise. I said, 'Listen, mate, life has surface noise'.

Really needs to be played loud enough to start a civil defence alert.

I hear noises which others don't hear and which disturb for me the music of the spheres, which others don't hear either.

Hey all you little waves run away. Mmm... run away.

'The only way to feel the noise is when it's good and loud.' - From 'Overkill'.

What music is more enchanting than the voices of young people, when you can't hear what they say?

PETE: I had the same bloody trouble about two nights ago. I come in, about half past eleven at night. I come in, I get into bed, you see, feeling quite sleepy. I could feel the lids of me eyes beginning to droop, you see - a bit of droop in the eyes. I was about to drop off when suddenly - tap, tap, tap at the bloody window pane. I looked out. You know who it was?

The arts babblative and scribblative.

The Public is an old woman. Let her maunder and mumble.

There the thundering strokes begin, There the press, and there the din.

(Everybody are irking) 'SHUUUUT UUUP!!'

A breath upon her hand Muted the night. She turned - A cymbal crashed, Amid roaring horns.

Red-in-red repetitions never going Away,a little rusty, a little rouged, A little roughened and ruder, a crown The eye could not escape, a red renown Blowing itself upon the tedious ear.

'Shutdown the devil sound'

The musical equivalent of St. Pancras Station

Somebody said...Where are the dreamers Somebody said...Dead Somebody said...Here comes the holy rollers Tryin' to sell us all the screamers instead.

A Reasonable Guide to Horrible Noise

Ah me, why did they build my house by the road to the market town? ~ 4

There was such idiot minstrelsy in rain, So many clappers going without bells, That these bethous compose a heavenly gong. One voice repeating, one tireless chorister, The phrases of a single phrase, ke-ke, A single text, granite monotony

'Stop the voices! Stop them!'

Clarionet, n. An instrument of torture operated by a person with cotton in his ears. There are two instruments that are worse than a clarionet -- two clarionets.

Noise is the most impertinent of all forms of interruption. It is not only an interruption, but also a disruption of thought.

I frequently hear music in the heart of noise.

Nowadays most men lead lives of noisy desperation.

The pounding of the cylinders increased: ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa.

Hungry rooster don't cackle w'en he fine a wum.

Ten people who speak make more noise than ten thousand who are silent.

Turn that thing off, its driving me mad!

He who sleeps in continual noise is wakened by silence.

'Do we need ear plugs?'

Wabagoo!