151 Voice Quotes

Going to where the silence is. That is the responsibility of a journalist: giving a voice to those who have been forgotten, forsaken, and beaten down by the powerful.

I believe, in a funny way, the job of the novelist is to be out there on the fringes and speaking for an experience that has not really been spoken for.

The song seraphically free Of taint of personality, So pure that it salutes the suns The voice of one for millions, In whom the millions rejoice For giving their one spirit voice.

I dream of a time when the people will retake their airways and use them to achieve a voice to rediscover democracy, and to see the divine potential of man.

Oh all the times I've listened, and all the times I've heard All the melodies I'm missing, and all the magic words, And all those potent voices, and the choices we had then, How I'd love to find we had that kind of choice again.

A voice is a human gift; it should be cherished and used, to utter fully human speech as possible. Powerlessness and silence go together.

Words mean more than what is set down on paper. It takes the human voice to infuse them with deeper meaning.

As I lay asleep in Italy There came a voice from over the Sea, And with great power it forth led me To walk in the visions of Poesy.

The Southern past, the Southern present, the Southern future, concentrated into Gertrude's voice, became one of red clay pine-barrens, of chain-gang camps, of housewives dressed in flour sacks who stare all day dully down into dirty sinks.

All great questions must be raised by great voices, and the greatest voice is the voice of the people - speaking out - in prose, or painting or poetry or music; speaking out - in homes and halls, streets and farms, courts and cafes - let that voice speak and the stillness you hear will be the gratitude of mankind.

I can spot a musical type. I can tell by looking at a woman whether she is a contralto or a soprano.

We who have the final word can speak softly or angrily. We can seek to challenge and annoy, as we need not stay docile and quiet.

You do have a story inside you; it lies articulate and waiting to be written -- behind your silence and your suffering.

The Internet:has become the voice of the people in the first genuine experiment in democracy yet conducted in America. It stands ready to serve every facet, every faction.

Who is more to be pitied, a writer bound and gagged by policemen or one living in perfect freedom who has nothing more to say?

To live in prison is to live without mirrors. To live without mirrors is to live without the self. She is living selflessly, she finds a hole in the stone wall and on the other side of the wall, a voice. The voice comes through darkness and has no face. This voice becomes her mirror.

Immortality. I notice that as soon as writers broach this question they begin to quote. I hate quotation. Tell me what you know.

Underneath all his writing there is the settled determination to use certain words, to take certain attitudes, to produce a certain atmosphere; what he is seeing or thinking or feeling has hardly any influence on the way he writes. The reader can reply, ironically, 'That's what it means to have a style'; but few people have so much of one, or one so obdurate that you can say of it, 'It is a style that no subject can change.'

The 'sayings' of a community, its proverbs, are its characteristic comment upon life; they imply its history, suggest its attitude toward the world and its way of accepting life. Such an idiom makes the finest language any writer can have; and he can never get it with a notebook. He himself must be able to think and feel in that speech - it is a gift from heart to heart.

This is what drives a young writer out of his head, this feeling that nothing is being said.

We must know what we think and speak out, even at the risk of unpopularity. In the final analysis, a democratic government represents the sum total of the courage and the integrity of its individuals. It cannot be better than they are. ... In the long run there is no more exhilarating experience than to determine one's position, state it bravely and then act boldly.

I can hear you, the rest of the world hears you. And the people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon.

That time we all heard it, cool and clear, cutting across the hot grit of the day. The major Voice. The adult Voice forgoing Rolling River, forgoing tearful tale of bale and barge and other symptoms of an old despond. Warning, in music-words devout and large, that we are each other's harvest: we are each other's business: we are each other's magnitude and bond.

My sonnet asserts that the sonnet still lives. My epic, should such fortune befall me, asserts that the heroic narrative is not lost - that it is born again, perhaps in some form which seems hardly at first recognizable, but nevertheless, there it is, born again. As poets we do not ask permission before we begin to practise, for there is no authority to license us. We do not inquire whether it is still possible to pen a drama, for the answer to that question is ours alone to give. It is our drama, spoken or sung, that asserts our right to the title of poet. It is our decision that counts, and not the opinion of some theatre management, or the ponderings of the critic, or even the advice of our friendliest mentors. It is our decision, our assertion, that alters the whole state of affairs.

Now that I can see it's the queen's new clothes Now that I can hear all your poison prose Now that I can talk with my tongue unfroze I'm not so sure of Santa or the buck tooth fairy There are no words for me inside your dictionary

There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me.

And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.

The miner who is exploited or shot down, the slaves in the camps, those in the colonies, the legions of persecuted throughout the world - they need all those who can speak to communicate their silence and to keep in touch with them.

A still small voice spake unto me, 'Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?' Then to the still small voice I said; 'Let me not cast in endless shade What is so wonderfully made.'

Sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moan of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.

It's definitely a different world. Smoking is bad for your voice, for sure, but you learn to function in that world of bad. Now I'm in better shape, and I'm much more physical onstage, but I have to watch getting winded. Once I'm winded, I don't sing right. I would have smoked three cigarettes already during this interview [laughs].

Plygain y darllain deirllith, Plu yw ei gasul i'n plith. Pell y clywir uwch tiroedd Ei lef o lwyn a'i loyw floedd. Proffwyd rhiw, praff awdur hoed, Pencerdd gloyw angerdd glyngoed.

Ah if only this voice could stop, this meaningless voice which prevents you from being nothing, just barely prevents you from being nothing and nowhere, just enough to keep alight this little yellow flame feebly darting from side to side, panting, as if straining to tear itself from its wick, it should never have been lit, or it should never have been fed, or it should have been put out, put out, it should have been let go out.

'I think his tone is much too vehement'

'...like how you'd sound if you drank a quart of bourbon, smoked a pack of cigarettes and swallowed a pack of razor blades. . . . Late at night. After not sleeping for three days.' -- Anonymous fan[1]

'Baaaaaaaaaaack body-drop!'

'Vince, shut up. I'm the one doing the talking in this ring tonight.'

Struggling toward impassioned choirs, Crying among the clouds, enraged By gold antagonists in air - I know my lazy, leaden twang Is like the reason in a storm; And yet it brings the storm to bear. I twang it out and leave it there.

In solitude the trumpets of solitude Are not of another solitude resounding; A little string speaks for a crowd of voices.

If you don't raise your voice, then your environmentalism means nothing; it's mere tokenism or opportunism.

'Let the riot be the rhyme of the unheard'

For as long as there is some way for people to be able to hear that voice, there will be those who will be influenced by his voice.

Dicko: It was good to see you step outside the AC role that you entered the competition as. Um, I would take those movement coaching sessions a little more seriously. Simply put, um, performing a song is about communicating emotions and whether we like it or not 80% of communication is non-verbal. You communicate with your body, you communicate in emotion, sensuality and a sense of power and that's something that Anastacia does pretty well. I think it's something that you really need to work on because actually seeing that piece before you performed highlighted the fact that that's a bit of a failing of yours. I think your voice is great. It's really holding up well and actually preferred it to the version of Anastacia or Miriam as I sometimes call him. Her.

Marcia: I appreciated the simplicity and when you just stand there and people hear your voice it's beautiful.

Though habituated to think of Rob Roy in rather a friendly point of view, I will confess frankly that I never heard him speak but that it seemed to thrill my blood. The intonation of the mountaineers gives a habitual depth and hollowness to the sound of their words, owing to the guttural expression so common in their native language, and they usually speak with a good deal of emphasis. To these national peculiarities Rob Roy added a sort of hard indifference of accent and manner, expressive of a mind neither to be daunted, nor surprised, nor affected by what passed before him, however dreadful, however sudden, however afflicting. Habitual danger, with unbounded confidence in his own strength and sagacity, had rendered him indifferent to fear, and the lawless and precarious life he led had blunted, though its dangers and errors had not destroyed, his feelings for others.

'I always like the idea that you can turn on the radio and say, 'Oh, that's Clay Aiken. Oh, that's Barbra Streisand. Oh, that's Frank Sinatra, Oh, that's Tony Bennett.' They're a star if you can identify them immediately by their sound. That kid has his own sound. He's got energy. He's got soul. He's got it all. That voice pours out of him.' -Merv Griffin

'When healthy and serious, he was flat-out the world's greatest singer. In his voice, he possessed the most beautiful musical instrument, and the genius to play that instrument perfectly; he could jump from octave to countless other octaves with such agility without voice crack, simultaneously sing a duet with his own overtones, rein in an always-lurking atomic explosion to so effortlessly fondle, and release, the most delicate chimes of pathos. Yet, those who haven't been open (or had the chance) to explore some of Presley's most brilliant work - the almost esoteric ballads and semi-classical recordings -, have cheated themselves out of one of the most beautiful gifts to fall out of the sky in a lifetime. Fortunately, this magnificent musical instrument reached its perfection around 1960, the same time the recording industry finally achieved sound reproduction rivaling that of today. So, it's never too late to explore and cherish a well-preserved miracle, as a simple trip to the record store will truly produce unparalleled chills and thrills, for the rest of your life; and then you'll finally understand the best reason this guy never goes away'.

'We can even hazard a little analysis as to what made his voice so appealing. 'That curious baritone,' one critic called it. Actually, that is inexact. The voice had mixed propensities, hovering between tenor and bass and everything in between. Even a convincing falsetto lay within his range. One thing he was not, ever, was 'Steve-'n-Edie', the polished, professionally accomplished Vegas artistes who once pronounced on an afternoon interview show (Mr. Lawrence enunciating the sentiment for himself and his partner/wife, Ms. Gorme), 'We don't really think of Elvis as a singer. But he was a star.' It is only when, years later, one gets past the indignation of hearing such apparent ignorance, that the sense of the observation becomes clear. A singer is someone like Steve Lawrence rolling effortlessly (and meaninglessly) through a shlock-standard like 'What Now, My Love?'. More or less like doing the scales. A star is the persona in whom one invests one's vicarious longings, a being who is constantly hazarding - and intermittently succeeding at - the impossible stretches that every soul wishes to attempt but lacks the means or the will to. It's not a matter of virtuosity.'

'Elvis manages to pull off exponential, seismic shifts in energy, unleashing hoards of it through his voice whilst, within the space of a second, racing up the highest, most absolute vocal intensity; it's almost voyeuristic to see a single performer put so much energy; you look around to see if it's really possible; the voice just becomes a big tank panzering through the screen, punching in chorus after driving chorus and it is insanely, inexplicably thrilling seismic TV, bigger than the moon landing, a one-man volcano of energy; he makes it seem so damn effortless and, despite all the waiting and expected attention during the solo numbers, he always puts in an on-performance, the three unflagging takes of 'If I can Dream' all intense, committed; and he does this through vocal performance alone, not moves; this is probably one of the few times where the vocals mattered most to him, and it shows; after days of intense singing, he hardly even loses his voice; I challenge any current pop singer to match this three-day heavy intensity, this sheer rock and roll energy'

Somebody said...We got to find the words Got to, got to be an answer there Somebody said that...You never get heard 'Cause nobody really cares

So I pray the gods may hear even me, and let my whispered yes tower above my shouted no and mount all the way to their fivefold realm. As I would be heard, so I hear you.*

...Silence equals nonexistence. If I don't give too much information, if I don't go there, it's like I was never 'there' in the first place. I noticed this most right after September 11, when there were no gays or lesbians invited to give their opinion about what was going on. There were no women invited to give their opinion. There were hardly any people of color invited, and if they were, they were Muslim Americans and Arab Americans talking about the violence that they had experienced because they shared the same skin color as the terrorists, which is heinous and dumb! That's like arresting Emmanuel Lewis because Gary Coleman punched that woman!

You silent boy, you have found such eloquence now that you can't be a mere boy anymore

'...like it was soaked in a vat of bourbon, left hanging in the smokehouse for a few months and then taken outside and run over with a car' --Unknown critic when commenting on his voice

'It's like he swallowed a roll of sandpaper' - Anon boy 2008

This girl sounds like her tubes are tying themselves together.

Woman up. Butch up. (deep man voice) JESUS.

'Use your voice.'

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!

To sin by silence when they should protest makes cowards of men.

In this land of unlimited opportunity, a place where, to paraphrase Woody Allen, any man or woman can realize greatness as a patient or as a doctor, we have only one commercial American filmmaker who consistently speaks with his own voice. That is Woody Allen, gag writer, musician, humorist, philosopher, playwright, stand-up comic, film star, film writer and film director.

All great questions must be raised by great voices, and the greatest voice is the voice of the people - speaking out - in prose, or painting or poetry or music; speaking out - in homes and halls, streets and farms, courts and cafes - let that voice speak and the stillness you hear will be the gratitude of mankind.

Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words.

We find ourselves like a hollow glass globe, from whose vacancy a voice speaks.

I will sit down now, but the time will come when you will hear me.

Then there was a maiden speech, so inaudible, that it was doubted whether, after all, the young orator really did lose his virginity.

There is no index of character so sure as the voice.

[Said Aslan,] 'But I cannot tell that to this old sinner, and I cannot comfort him either; he has made himself unable to hear my voice. [...] But I will give him the only gift he is able to receive. [...] Sleep and be separated for some few hours from all the torments you have devised for yourself.' (ch. 14)

There are too many leaders anointed because they have a public voice - television, radio, or record, or whatever. That even includes myself. In the past, I'd say, 'Don't anoint me when you can anoint yourself.'

Screaming is bad for the voice, but it's good for the soul.

'Don't give up! I believe in you all. A person's a person, no matter how small! And you very small persons will not have to die If you make yourselves heard! So come on, now, and TRY!'

'This', cried the Mayor, 'is your town's darkest hour! The time for all Whos who have blood that is red To come to the aid of their country!', he said. 'We've GOT to make noises in greater amounts! So, open your mouth, lad! For every voice counts!'

Only in Canada could somebody with a voice like mine win 'Vocalist of the Year'.

Speak up for yourself, or you'll end up a rug.

My Aunt Dahlia has a carrying voice... If all other sources of income failed, she could make a good living calling the cattle home across the Sands of Dee.

she cried in a voice that hit me between the eyebrows and went out at the back of my head.

'Jeeves,' I said, and I am free to admit that in my emotion I bleated like a lamb drawing itself to the attention of the parent sheep, 'what the dickens is all this?'

It was a harsh, rasping voice, in its timbre not unlike a sawmill.

'You must remember, Father,' said Mavis, in a voice which would have had an Eskimo slapping his ribs and calling for the steam-heat, 'that this girl was probably very pretty. So many of these New York girls are. That would, of course, explain Frederick's behaviour.'

Directing an austere look at Tubby's receding back, she spoke in a cold crisp voice which sounded in the drowsy stillness like ice tinkling in a pitcher.

By the way, would you convey my compliments to the purist who reads your proofs and tell him or her that I write in a sort of broken-down patois which is something like the way a Swiss-waiter talks, and that when I split an infinitive, God damn it, I split it so it will remain split, and when I interrupt the velvety smoothness of my more or less literate syntax with a few sudden words of barroom vernacular, this is done with the eyes wide open and the mind relaxed and attentive. The method may not be perfect, but it is all I have.

He would declare and could himself believe That the birds there in all the garden round From having heard the daylong voice of Eve Had added to their own an oversound, Her tone of meaning but without the words.

The corollary is that no writer will take all of his or her editor's advice; for all have sinned and fallen short of editorial perfection. Put another way, to write is human, to edit is divine.

No, it's not a very good story - its author was too busy listening to other voices to listen as closely as he should have to the one coming from inside.

When Mr. John P. Gavit, managing editor of the New York Evening Post, wrote to Mr. Melville E. Stone, general manager of the Associated Press, that I had a reputation 'as an insatiable hunter of personal publicity,' what Mr. Gavit meant was that I was accustomed to demand and obtain more space in newspapers than the amount of my worldly possessions entitled me to.

But we play bad guys in Hollywood movies, like, take, uh, The Empire Strikes Back from the Star Wars trilogy. The Death Star - just full of British actors opening doors and going: 'Oh, I'm : oh : oh.' 'What is it, Lieutenant Sebastian?' 'It's just the rebels, sir. They're here.' 'My God, man! Do they want tea?' 'No, I think they're after something more than that, sir. I don't know what it is, but they've brought a flag.' 'Damn! That's dashed cunning of them! Ah, Lord Vader!' [hollow breath] 'Uh : hello?' Because he was only impressive because he had that James Earl Jones voice: [deep voice] 'I'm : I am Vader. The force is strong with you.' If he had a much more [high wimpy voice]: ''Ello! Look, I'm Lord Vader, and just pay a-bloody-ttention, all right? Luke, Luke, the force is strong with you.' 'Is it?' 'Yeah.' 'Well, who told you that?' 'Uh, s-some bloke. Yeah, he said the force is really rather strong with you.' 'Well, how strong?' 'Uh, as strong as a small pony.' 'Oh, that's quite strong, that is.' Film would never have fuckin' worked, would it?

I liked Benny right away, he had something I enjoyed very much - a worse singing voice than mine. ~ George Burns

I tell you who I also think is wonderful is a chap called Leonard Cohen : do you know him? [:] He's remarkable. I mean, the orchestration is fantastic and the words, the lyrics and everything, he's a remarkable man, and has this incredibly sort of laid back gravelly voice, it's terrific stuff I think. I enjoy jazz and things:

It was, in the end, the kind of blow that the calm, seasoned, assuring voice had always softened for us, always relieved of its sharp edges and its tragedy -- the kind of mitigation with which the years abroad had gifted him. But the perseverance of 57 years in front of a microphone could not restore the calm, seasoned, assuring voice. There was now, it seemed, no one to soften and relieve this shock ... The calm, seasoned, assuring voice has been stilled. And for now, at least, there are no others. ~ Keith Olbermann, MSNBC