Voice Quotes

...if you want your own distinctive voice, you first have to become someone...

As the voices fall silent, the individuals who make up the amorphous and always changing community must decide for themselves, as they always have. I can’t write a coda because I can’t speak for others. I can only and ever speak for myself.

The silkiness of his voice was a torturous caress that I could have endured for the rest of my life.

It is also true that memory sometimes comes to him as a voice. It is a voice that speaks inside him, and it is not necessarily his own. It speaks to him in the way a voice might tell stories to a child, and yet at times this voice makes fun of him, or calls him to attention, or curses him in no uncertain terms. At times it willfully distorts the story it is telling him, changing the facts to suit its whims, catering to the interests of drama rather than truth. Then he must speak to it in his own voice and tell it to stop, thus returning it to the silence it came from. At other times it sings to him. At still other times it whispers. And then there are the times it merely hums, or babbles, or cries out in pain. And even when it says nothing, he knows it is still there, and in the silence of this voice that says nothing, he waits for it to speak.

To write,” Marguerite Duras remarked, “is also not to speak. It is to keep silent. It is to howl noiselessly.

That voice that cries out doesn't have to be a weakling's does it?

The story I'm writing finds its own voice while I'm writing it.

Her voice is still pitched high, thanks to her youth, but it has a certain incipient darkness to it, a low richness that will mature in the coming years to the smoky tones of a priestess or a queen -- a woman of great natural power.

I felt his voice. Fingers rubbing moss. Smoke curling. Wood worn and smoothed over time. His voice had darkness in it that hovered close to the ground, like a mist hanging over a lake deep in a forest at dusk. A bolt of sea-green velvet. A sensation as much as a series of sounds. It reverberated inside me.

Your voice can be made loud to speak against ungodliness and injustice and not promote it.

Conversation is the vehicle for change. We test our ideas. We hear our own voice in a concert with another. And inside those pauses of listening, we approach new territories of thought. A good argument, call it a discussion, frees us. Words fly out of our mouths like threatened birds. Once released, they may never return. If they do, they have chosen home and the bird-worms are calmed into an ars poetica.

When something needs to be said, I'll say it even if the whole world grabs me by the neck and tells me to keep quiet.

Surely she'd heard voices like his, so low-pitched as to make every commonplace utterance seem of the deepest intimacy, every cliche a delicious secret.

The voice of the archangel is the trumpet call of God.

Any church that operates in prayerless and powerless Christianity spend their days and years conducting dust to dust rites in the burial grounds.

Do the other kids make fun of you? For how you talk?''Sometimes.''So why don't you do something about it? You could learn to talk differently, you know.'But this is my voice. How would you be able to tell when I was talking?

I am a human, I have a voice and I'm not shy to raise it for honesty and truth against mistreatment and lies. I'd rather die than go silent because I know my silence will never protect me from malice and my pretence will never give me peace and joy. Love me or hate me because I stand for truth no matter what and the truth will set me free.

The man had one of those dark, deep voices, the kind that made men listen and women shed their clothing.

He laid his hands on her head, pushing back the hood. He began to speak. His voice was soft, and the words were in no tongue she had ever heard. The sound of them came into her heart like rain falling. She grew still to listen.

Once you start questioning your beliefs, that's when it's all over. It is truly doubt that kills our conviction.

When everyone has a microphone, you can't hear anything. Choose one voice carefully and listen in.

Sound has a profound effect on the senses. It can be both herd and felt. It can even be seen with the mind’s eye. It can almost be tasted and smelled. Sound can evoke responses of the five senses. Sound can paint a picture, produce a mood, trigger the senses to remember another time and place. From infancy we hear sound with our entire bodies. When I hear my own name, I have as much a sense of it entering my body through my back or my hand or my chest as through my ears. Sound speaks to the sensorium; the entire system of nerves that stimulates sensual responce.

Government is like a baby: an alimentary canal with a big appetite at one end and no sense of responsibility at the other.

To gain your own voice, you have to forget about having it heard.” —Allen Ginsberg, WD

She was a voice with a body as afterthought, a wry smile that sailed through heavy traffic. Give her a history and she'd disappear.Eric Packer about Vija Kinski

Tears is the voice of heart in pain, in absence of feelings one don't care what you share.

The voice of God, if you must know, is Aretha Franklin's.

The soul might be silent but the servant of the soul has always got a voice and it has got one for a reason.

All I know: I could only encounter you, my oasis, coming out of a desert. Deserted myself. This is all right. My futureless and solitary self. When suddenly I hear the voice of the springs--Right away you made me want to sing. To cry. Then to drink. But after the desert, the merest trickle of water sounds like a storm. And ever since, Promethea's every murmur shakes my life like an earthquake. I was asleep. I was not thirsty. It would have been possible for me not to hear the first three tears. Ever since I never sleep. I listen.

Sometimes you need to sit lonely on the floor in a quiet room in order to hear your own voice and not let it drown in the noise of others.

In solitude, you listen to the sacred voice.

I don’t know why everyoneis still trying to find out whether heaven and hell exist.Why do we need more evidence?They exist here on this very Earth.Heaven is standing atop Mount Qasiounoverlooking the Damascene sightswith the wind carrying Qabbani’sdulcet words all around you.And hell is only four hours away in Aleppo where children’s cries drown out the explosions of mortar bombsuntil they lose their voice,their families, and their limbs.Yes, hell certainly does existright now, at this moment,as I pen this poem. And all we’re doingto extinguish this hellfireis sighing, shrugging, liking, and sharing.Tell me: what exactly does that makeus? Are we any better than the gatekeepers of hell?

Voices and faces aren't manifestationsof good or bad.

If your altar is not active, your voice will not be strong

Let my silence grow with noise as pregnant mothers grow with life. Let my silence permeate these walls as sunlight permeates a home. Let the silence rise from unwatered graves and craters left by bombs. Let the silence rise from empty bellies and surge from broken hearts. The silence of the hidden and forgotten. The silence of the abused and tortured. The silence of the persecuted and imprisoned. The silence of the hanged and massacred. Loud as all the sounds can be, let my silence be loud so the hungry may eat my words and the poor may wear my words. Loud as all the sounds can be, let my silence be loud so I may resurrect the dead and give voice to the oppressed. My silence speaks.

I forgive youAll I had to offer you was sadnessMy eyes shed sadnessMy face speaks sadnessMy lips smile sadnessMy voice spews sadnessMy touch spreads sadnessI forgive you for leaving, for I have become an infectious incurable virus threatening to destroy everything you are notSuch a happy delicate thing she is, isn't she?She has no idea, does she?How long before you turn her into sadness...

My voice is born repeatedly in the fields of uncertainty.

Come back to me.Where have you gone?And why so long?I miss the star below your lip,the constellation on your chest.I miss your ways,how you net butter-flying words and release themfor others to enjoy.I miss your tenderness,the sweetness of your breathand the song of your voice.I miss howyou worship me.Come back to me once more.Why did you go?And whatever for?The heavens plotted against us.The clouds came andpissed on our lives.The smell of charged particlesstill lingers in the air.What will become of you and I?Come back to us.

Your voice is the wildest thing you own,” Brooke says to me. “And you’re giving it away. You can’t see it. Your obsession is blinding you.” He is angry. He is talking in shorthand. “You’re losing yourself.

When people don't express themselves, they die one piece at a time.

You use your real voice with those you love, and you cannot be phony with those who know you well.

Voice your opinion and let the confidence in you stand still

She let the fear burn inside her like fuel, making her voice even stronger.

God is not looking for incredibly high notes, intricate riffs or award winning ad-libbing. God is looking at the heart.

I see no reason to keep silent about my enjoyment of the sound of my own voice as I work.

There are so many different ways for someone to say your name. I’m not sure I ever realized that before I met Jesse. Prior to him, it was just Rose calling out to me with love and affection or Gideon relaying his quiet approval or disapproval. Crisp, clear notes. When Jesse says my name, it’s a chord, a mash-up of several intense emotions all reflected in two syllables.

In the desert I often whisper. Junipers are excellent sounding boards. They have been shaped by wing. Rocks seem to care nothing about what I say, yet when I speak to them, they feel porous, capable of receiving my words and taking them in as part of their history of brokenness.

Whenever you deny the hand of Justice, Violence almost always steps in.

That was the day I made up my mind, I am the voice of those who don't have the strength to cry.

If by years of patient suffering, God can manage to take the harshness out of my voice, then the time has been well-spent.

Me being an ant, at her mountain, I would have tried my best for my voice to reach her peak. But our timing was off, and she hid her pain as stars in clouds. If I had the chance, I would have saved her from all the truths and lies.

The reality of a serious writer is a reality of many voices, some of them belonging to the writer, some of them belonging to the world of readers at large.

Besides, my life is a catastrophe. It's a catastrophe to be without a voice.

The voice of one crying in the wilderness.

Music, it seemed, could appear in many voices, and had all of the emotions and array of vocabulary as a human..

It's time to get healed. It's time to confess. Falling for the bait doesn't make you the worst person in the world. You were snared. You were hooked. But you don't have to stay that way. Now is the time to deal with the shackles that keep you enslaved. Today you can leave the prison that sexual immorality has created from your past mistakes. Hear your Father's voice call out to you above the noisy clamor of our culture. He says, "I love you. You're free to go now. Sexual sin has no hold on you.

When I am in a situation where I feel uncomfortable about speaking but it is necessary for me to speak, or if I feel 'put on the spot' my voice sounds strained, really weird, and it feels as if I have no control over how I sound in these situations. Sometimes then my voice is barely audible and I am frequently asked to repeat myself. Attempts at speaking are often embarrassing, shaming experiences for me. I sound quite different when speaking with someone I am more relaxed with, but I don't like the way my voice sounds at the best of times; I was horrified when I heard a recording of myself. Because of this inhibition about speaking, I have never learned to project my voice or to use it effectively. I often feel that I could no more use my vocal cords to break a silence, to get somebody's attention or to initiate an interaction than I could run through fire or do something dangerous in my life.

The inner voice is divine voice of God.

All stories have a curious and even dangerous power. They are manifestations of truth -- yours and mine. And truth is all at once the most wonderful yet terrifying thing in the world, which makes it nearly impossible to handle. It is such a great responsibility that it's best not to tell a story at all unless you know you can do it right. You must be very careful, or without knowing it you can change the world.

You heard me cry long before I knew my voice.