Quotes about Emotional Resonance

As he spoke all tongues, he entered into all hearts.

Je ne vis qu'elle était belle Qu'en sortant des grands bois sourds. «Soit ; n'y pensons plus ! » dit-elle. Depuis, j'y pense toujours.

The spoken word being breath, the thrilling of minds is like the rustling of leaves.

The silence of a heart echoes higher than thousand exalted words.

Even so,—a million years after we shall have ceased to view the sun,—will the gladness and grief of our own lives pass with richer music into other hearts—there to bestir, for one mysterious moment, some deep and exquisite thrilling of voluptuous pain.

She may have been the one whose name meant music, but his sounded like it. Saying it made her want to sing it, to lean out a window and call him home. To whisper it in the dark.

I don't believe in love anymore, the foghorn blasted it out of me.

Good morning, daddy!Ain't you heardThe boogie-woogie rumbleOf a dream deferred?

Every heart has its own melody," he said. "You know mine.

There's something about a place you've been with someone you love. It takes on a meaning in your mind. It becomes more than a place. It becomes a distillation of what you felt for each other. The moments you spend in a place with someone... they become part of its bricks and mortar. Part of its soul.

Every heart has its own melody.

You understand my music.

Cinema is still a very young art form with extraordinary techniques and very impressive special effects but sometimes it seems the soul has been taken out of things.

There was something familiar in her energy. And yet I didn't want to use that word, because it sounded too flaky and new-agey, and I didn't even know if I believed that people had an energy. But there's something in a person you can feel, so that you know a little bit about him before he even opens his mouth. I just wasn't sure what to call it.

That was the problem with my mother. I could never fully get her voice out of my head.

I remember she sang the opening aria from Her Last Nocturne and I saw the night sky pour out of her mouth. Every time I wemt to hear her sing afterward, even months afterward, I saw the same thing. Blackness and stars flooding her mouth and splashing onto the boards in great gouts. Galaxies and the void dripping off her chin. Her teeth burning. I told her about it on a night in December and she whispered I know it, baby. I see it, too. That's my insides coming out.

The problem with silence is that it can't speak up and say why it's silent. And so silence collects, becomes amplified, takes on a life outside our intentions, in that silence can get misread as indifference, or avoidance, or even shame, and eventually this silence passes over into forgetting.

You hear me speak. But do you hear me feel?

Poetry is a hook for memory

A writer's greatest reward is naming something unnamed that many people are feeling. A writer's greatest punishment is being misunderstood. The same words can do both.

It's not what happens to people on the page; it's about what happens to a reader in his heart and mind.

Art is never didactic, does not take kindly to facts, is helpless to grapple with theories, and is killed outright by a sermon.

Wild is the music of the autumnal wind Among the faded woods; but these blithe notes Strike the deserted to the heart;—I speak Of what I know, and what we feel within.

Are we really sure the purring is coming from the kitty and not from our very own hearts?