Quotes about Emotional Resonance

I generally find an affinity with a lot of the people I play and I suppose if I didn't feel an affinity for them then they wouldn't be particularly good performances.

It's hard to say how certain stories just punch us in the heart and the brain at the same time at the end. I suppose that's what we're all looking for. But each story has its own valence, its own way of saying goodbye to you.

Music's supposed to come from the heart. I felt like that if it ever got mechanical, I was going to back away from it.

When my guitar was growling, playing surf beat, you could hear it; you could feel it.

I make music and hope people enjoy it - but when they do it's always a surprise. A nice surprise, but not one that I expect to always be there.

I think if something resonates, even if it's surreal, it's because it is relatable and I think that that's a core issue for me.

Since it's based on my parents, it's more emotionally close to me than some of my more surreal plays. And then I like the balance of the comic and the sad. It should play as funny, but you should care about the characters and feel sad for them.

It's possible, in a poem or a short story, to write about commonplace things and objects using commonplace but precise language, and to endow those things-- a chair, a window curtain, a fork, a stone, a woman's earring-- with immense, even startling power. It is possible to write a line of seemingly innocuous dialogue and have it send a chill along the reader's spine-- the source of artistic delight, as Nabokov would have it. That's the kind of writing that most interests me.

Le parole possono essere precise anche al punto da apparire piatte, l'importante è che siano cariche di significato; se usate bene, possono toccare tutte le note.

Some music has words, and rock had words that at times aspired to poetry, but the words were always sounds first, spoken to the body before the mind.

Certain kinds of beauty make people weep, the moments "when hope and history rhyme

A Book Is a Heart That Only Beats in the Chest of Another. ~Rebecca Solnit on the Solitary Intimacy of Reading and Writing

Listen to what makes your hair stand on end, your heart melt, and your eyes go wide, what stops you in your tracks and makes you want to live, wherever it comes from, and hope that your writing can do all those things for other people.

The moment ached, as if music were being played somewhere on an instrument whose strings had some connexion with her heart.

New furniture has no character whereas old furniture always has a past. New furniture is always mute, but old furniture can almost talk. You can almost hear it talking about the good times and troubles it's seen. I think there is a Country and Western song about talking furniture, but I can't remember the name.

Being heard and understood is "one of the greatest desires of the human heart.

And suddenly one note came back to us, just bounced back off the walls and rose from the floor and filled the place with this perfect hum...These two completely different things, a note and a room, finding each other. It sounded...right. Am I being ridiculous? Do you think that's what we mean by love, Mr. Evans? The note that comes back to you? That finds you even when you don't want to be found?

How come I can't make her happy, how come she can't make me happy? Simple: the atomic reaction you expect isn't taking place, the beam with which you are bombarding the particles is on the wrong wavelength.

there was a sudden easing in him, as if someone had finally played a note that harmonized with the one he sounded every day.

talking to him this morning had been like taking that first bite of an orange. That first sip of black, black coffee. He listened as though she mattered precisely as much as he did. How disorienting this quality was to encounter in a man.

she echoed with longing, like struck crystal.

His touch was like a bard's on his instrument, and it awakened a deep and mysterious music in my body.

He had always understood me better, without words. So I laid my hand on my heart, held it there for a moment, and then moved it over and touched my palm against his breast.

Sometimes at night I think that my husband is with me again, coming gently through the mists, and we are tranquil together. Then the morning comes, the wavering grey turns to gold, there is stirring within me as the sleepers awake, and he softly departs.