Voice Quotes - Page 3

Remind Youth: It is not necessary to look for confidence. It is there – potentially yours and never hidden; awaiting a commanding voice of faith, hope and affirmation. Speak repetitiously with authority and conviction the self-assurance which only seems lacking, but you simply lost touch with.

Your exuberance, passion, mesmerizing voice, animated actions, and eyes full of dreamscaptured my attentionso completely, that I didn't feel the bitter taste of coffee

Many people know they're working, but not what they're working.

When it comes to words, rather than using our own voice, authentic and unpracticed, we steal someone else's to shield our fear.

Listen to your intuition. When you're at a crossroad, the little voice is always talking to you. You just have to pay attention.

I'd had much practice turning my mind away from certain memories of my childhood. I could quickly dial her remembered voice from a whisper to a silence.

«Per­ho­nen is not here any­more,» it says, with a voice made of wings and whis­pers.

There are some people that should stay quiet, because they understand. As there are those that should stay quiet, because they don't understand. Some things are better left unsaid or voiced.

Loud actions, small people, loud voice, small mouths, loud world, small minds.

...authority is the unmistakeable tone in the voice of a true writer...

I love the Lord, for he heard my voice; he heard my cry for mercy. Because he turned his ear to me, I will call on him as long as I live. (Psalms 116:1-2 NIV)

I'm a Prince of Wales Trust ambassador, so I'm all about giving youth an education, a voice and a chance to not take the wrong road.

We know the quality of another’s heart through her voice.

His voice as smooth as silk, Grant started into his standard crowd-pleaser: Sinatra’s 'My Kind of Town.

You'd be surprised how little voice you have when you lose everything.

All music has a message and a spirit behind it.

An altar is like an airport where spirits take off and land

Truth speaks for itself if we’d just let it speak.

The only way he could have her was to shatter this stubborn faith of hers. In doing so, would he shatter her? "What has this god of yours ever really done for you?" She stood very still for a long moment, her back to him. "Everything.

There is a God part in you. The consciousness. The pure Self. Learn to listen the voice of that Power.

He had a clear, lyrical voice and his songs remained in her ears long after the music had ended.

He said that things could be different in Little Rock, if only the right people could find their voice. I wanted to be on of those people.

The dilemma for women who love to write may not have so much to do with finding the elusive literary voice, as with being reluctant to use the one that's already lurking inside, just waiting for the chance to speak up. Many of us, especiall,y those from the generations taught to be good, accommodating girls, are afraid of sounding too strong, too loud, too unconventional, or simply too much like the self we're afraid to reveal to the world. Most of us have at least an inkling of what form our writing voice should take, if only we might find the courage to reveal it.

Nobody is born with a style or a voice. We don't come out of the womb knowing who we are. In the beginning, we learn by pretending to be our heroes. We learn by copying.

The task of the moral philosopher-thinker is to support and strengthen the voice of human conscience, to recognize what is good or what is bad for people, whether they are good or bad for society in a period of evolution. May be a "voice crying in the wilderness", but only if that voice remains lively and uncompromising, it is possible to transform the desert into fertile land.

Soon madness has worn you down. It’s easier to do what it says than argue. In this way, it takes over your mind. You no longer know where it ends and you begin. You believe anything it says. You do what it tells you, no matter how extreme or absurd. If it says you’re worthless, you agree. You plead for it to stop. You promise to behave. You are on your knees before it, and it laughs.

Speech is the voice of the heart.

Writing is the voice of the heart' Julia Suzuki

Dead voices, lost sounds, forgotten noises, vibrations lockstepping into the abyss and now too distant ever to be recaptured!...What sort of arrows would be able to transfix such birds?

And even with the book closed, the voices do not stop--there are echoes and reverberations that seem to leap off the pages and mischievously leave the novel tingling in our ears.

You have to follow your own voice. You have to be yourself when you write. In effect, you have to announce, 'This is me, this is what I stand for, this is what you get when you read me. I'm doing the best I can - buy me or not - but this is who I am as a writer.

Without the wetness of your love, the fragrance of your water, or the trickling sounds of your voice ― I shall always feel thirsty.

I've never had a boy in here," Martin said in a serious voice. "I've never touched another man, as a matter of fact. . . .except for my father. That was my duty."Blomkvist's temples were pounding. He could not put his weight on his feet without being strangled. He tried to use his fingers to get a grip on the concrete wall behind him, but there was nothing to hold onto."It's time," Martin Vanger said.He put a hand on the strap and pulled down. Blomkvist instantly felt the noose cut into his neck."I've always wondered how a man tastes." He increased the pressure on the noose and leaned forward to kiss Blomkvist on the lips at the same time that a cold voice cut through the room."Hey you fucking creep, in this shithole I've got a monopoly on that one.

Once you know that you have a voice,” Louis said, “it’s no longer the voice that matters, but what is behind the voice.

I do not care what I labeled, as long as I am heard.

The sound of her voice was so pretty, it almost disguised the ugliness of her words.

The human voice is still the most paramount vessel or weapon to use, to uphold justice and to protest against injustice.

To be happy to be sad and sad to be happy is to sing an echo in that beautiful language called Sorrow.

You are funny like a kid and awesome like a princessUnseen like an angel, like the morning sunshine… Kindness like a river and highness like a mountain, In the middle of the Rheine, the cute face and sweet lips …(La la la la, La la , mmmm , mm …)Keep the lovely smile, in your juicy icy eyes Open the heaven for my eyes, forever angel voice Never angry never harsh, never mad never marsh Dear or darling, either diamond or dime, Overall the dream of the world

in the endit is wordspoetry. sunsetssomeone’s deep blue silk voice.mountain scents.someone’s smile.eyes. that we haveno defenses against.

It's morning now, and I miss the soft rasp of her voice already. Ugh. I'm in trouble, aren't I?

A singer whose ear is singly directed to the melodic aspects of a Brahms lied or a Verdi aria lacks perception of the musical web from which the melodic line emerges; the composer's intent may remain unrealized. to sing Schubert, Schumann, Brahms, Wolf, or Strauss lieder without an understanding of underlying harmonic structures is to vocalize on them, not to conceive of them musically and emotionally.

Words are the voice of the heart.

Your volume speaks volumes. Be aware of your dynamics, your tones as well as the loudness and softness of your voice on the phone and in person.

When silence is a choice, it is an unnerving presence. When silence is imposed, it is censorship.

I choose many voices to consider and reckon with, rather than just one to tolerate.

His voice is deep and gravelly. I once heard one of the girls say that he had the voice of a sex god, but because I've never really heard what a sex god sounds like, I can't verify that.

The place where music and worship meet is like a divine mystery of sorts.

Ordinary points of bravery, the synchronistic moments we all engage in, and the transformative power of minding our voices, forgiving, trusting, and learning to love ourselves and our lives, while we wait.

The man’s words were as deep and dark as midnight

I am not a finished poem, and I am not the song you’ve turned me into. I am a detached human being, making my way in a world that is constantly trying to push me aside, and you who send me letters and emails and beautiful gifts wouldn’t even recognise me if you saw me walking down the street where I live tomorrowfor I am not a poem. I am tired and worn out and the eyes you would see would not be painted or inspiredbut empty and weary from drinking too much at all timesand I am not the life of your party who sings and has glorious words to speakfor I don’t speak muchat alland my voice is raspy and unsteady from unhealthy living and not much sleep and I only use it when I sing and I always sing too muchor not at alland never when people are around because they expect poems and symphonies and I am nota poembut an elegyat my bestbut unedited and uncut and not a lot of people want to work with me because there’s only so much you can do with an audio take, with the plug-ins and EQs and I was born distorted, disordered, and I’m pretty fine with that,but others are not.

Sometimes Truth cannot be silenced.

I’d scream, but I have no voice. The bullies stole it from me

I decided it is better to scream. Silence is the real crime against humanity.

Anna's voice wasn't a beautiful voice - rough edged and sorrowful, a bit used, somehow male and female at once. Yet it had more vibrancy to it than most Danish voices, which were often thin and white and too pretty to trigger a shiver. Anna's voice had the heat of the south; it warmed Einar, as if her throat were red with coals.

Gankis lifted an arm to point at the distant shale cliffs. "And in the face of it there were thousands of little holes, little what-you-call-'ems...""Alcoves," Kennit supplied in an almost dreamy voice. "I call them alcoves, Gankis. As would you, if you could speak your own mother tongue.

A person is wise if he listens to millions of advice and doesn't implement any of it.

Chris was in the rocker, fully clothed, and was strumming idly onCory's guitar. "Dance, ballerina, dance," he softly chanted, and hissinging voice wasn't bad at all. Maybe we could work as musicians---atrio -if Carrie ever recovered enough to want a voice again.

What good are words if no one believes them?

The vehemence of emotion, stirred by grief and love within me, was claiming mastery, and struggling for full sway; and asserting a right to predominate: to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at last; yes,--and to speak.