Golden Voice Quotes & Sayings

A red-gold glow burst suddenly across the enchanted sky above them as an edge of dazzling sun appeared over the sill of the nearest window. The light hit both of their faces at the same time, so that Voldemort's was suddenly a flaming blur. Harry heard the high voice shriek as he too yelled his best hope to the heavens, pointing Draco's wand:
"Avada Kedavra!"
"Expelliarmus!"
The bang was like a cannon blast, and the golden flames that erupted between them, at the dead center of the circle they had been treading, marked the point where the spells collided. Harry saw Voldemort's green jet meet his own spell, saw the Elder Wand fly high, dark against the sunrise, spinning across the enchanted ceiling, spinning through the air toward the master it would not kill, who had come to take full possession of it at last. — J.K. Rowling

Kathy Kerouac knew the power of her voice. It was, she said, her 'golden thing,' an amulet protecting her against all disorders of the spirit. Her voice was a charm that could stop violence and transform crudeness into curtesy, foolishness into finesse. So Kathy Kerouac was under the impression that nothing was ever altogether dangerous, the feeling that no word spoken could soil her world. — Nicole Brossard

He opens his voice, showing me other sunrises he has seen, where the fields turn golden and the Source and his one in particular stood up from their early morning labours to watch it rise, a memory as simple as that, yet covered in joy and loss and love and grief-
And hope. — Patrick Ness

This is my song for Gabriel,
The Angel of the Word,
I've sung to you so many times,
This time I may be heard.
I sing to you from fellowship,
Past times I sang alone,
But now I can extend my love
To wood and air and stone.
Your golden wings have cradled me,
Your voice has made me kneel,
Your actions turn the universe,
Your wisdom spins the wheel.

This is my song for Abraham,
The shepherd of mankind,
You led your tribe out from Canaan,
And none were left behind.
O, come, fulfil your prophecies,
And say the war is won,
Must I wait in vales of visions,
And leave my song undone? — Philip Dodd

Here,for the last time together,appeared a triumvirate of old men,relics of a golden age,who still towered like giants above creatures of a later time:Webster,the kind of senator that Richard Wagner might have created at the height of his powers;Calhoun,the most majestic champion of error since Milton's Satan in Paridise Lost;and Clay,the old Conciliator, who had already saved the union twice and now came out of retirement to save it with his silver voice and his master touch once again before he died. — David M. Potter

Who am I? Laia muttered to her invisible audience, and they knew the answer and told it to her with one voice. She was the little girl with scabby knees, sitting on the doorstep staring down through the dirty golden haze of River Street in the heat of late summer, the six-year-old, the sixteen-year-old, the fierce, cross, dream-ridden girl, untouched, untouchable. She was herself — Ursula K. Le Guin

His eyes were above hers, and she saw that the golden-hazel irises were rimmed with black. "Miss Hathaway ... you're quite certain fate had no hand in our meeting tonight?"
She couldn't seem to breathe properly. "Qu-quite certain."
His head bent low. "And in all likelihood we'll never meet again?"
"Never." He was too large, too close. Nervously Amelia tried to marshal her thoughts, but they scattered like spilled matchsticks ... and then he set fire to them as his breath touched her cheek.
"I hope you're right. God help me if I should ever have to face the consequences."
"Of what?" Her voice was faint.
"This." His hand slid to the back of her neck and his mouth covered hers. — Lisa Kleypas

You're the reason people believe in tomorrow. You're the voice that scares the shadows away. You're the love that makes me breathe. So for the next few seconds, I'm going to be selfish. I'm going to say things that I don't want you to listen to. Don't go. Stay with me forever. Please, Ashlyn. Let me be your everything. Make me your golden. Don't. Go. — Brittainy C. Cherry

I took him by the arm to steady him. He opened his eyes slowly, the bright golden gleam now darkened with pain and sorrow. "Morgian!' he uttered, his voice strangled with grief. "It was Morgian ... — Stephen R. Lawhead

The ghost of a smile flickered across his lips. 'You're always the voice of reason. Just try listening to yourself once in a while. — Richelle Mead

Dimitri's voice snapped my attention back to him. "That's Adrian Ivashkov." He said the name the same way everyone else did.
"Yeah, I know."
"This is the second time I've seen you with him."
"Yeah," I replied glibly. "We hang out sometimes."
Dimitri arched an eyebrow, then jerked his head back toward where we'd come from. "You hang out in his room a lot?"
Several retorts popped into my head, and then a golden one took precedence. "What happens between him and me is none of your business." I managed a tone very similar to the one he'd used on me when making a similar comment about him and Tasha.
"Actually, as long as you're at the Academy, what you do is my business."
"Not my personal life. You don't have any say in that. — Richelle Mead

Soft you day, be velvet soft,
My true love approaches,
Look you bright, you dusty sun,
Array your golden coaches.
Soft you wind, be soft as silk
My true love is speaking.
Hold you birds, your silver throats,
His golden voice I'm seeking.
Come you death, in haste, do come
My shroud of black be weaving,
Quiet my heart, be deathly quiet,
My true love is leaving. — Maya Angelou

It may seem strange to you, but there are no such creatures in Athazie. There is an animal-a very large animal-that lives on the plains and is much the same shape. We call it gadahama. The golden hunter. He does not say meep, meep as these tiny ones do. His voice is like this.' He drew in a deep breath, then let out a deafening roar. The cats fled in all directions at once as they scrambled away. — Zoe Marriott

In that tiny moment of time, just a flicker of a second, his golden eyes met mine. "Free will, huh? Damn. It is a bitch." And then he smiled - he smiled - at me, a real smile, revealing those deep dimples. "I lost myself the moment I found you." My voice broke, and my heart ... — Jennifer L. Armentrout

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. — Anthony Liccione

Nathaniel Upchurch. Margaret couldn't believe it. Gone were the pale features, the thin frame, the hesitant posture, the spectacles. Now broad shoulders strained against his cutaway coat. Form-fitting leather breeches outlined muscular legs. The unfashionable dark beard emphasized his sharp cheekbones and long nose. His skin was golden brown. His hair unruly, some escaping its queue. Even his voice sounded different - lower, harsher, yet still familiar. — Julie Klassen

My view of an excellent novel was probably set in the golden age of fiction in the 19th century: narrative, character and voice are of equal importance. — Joanna Trollope

His voice nearly inaudible. He turned to look at me with a wistful expression. The golden eyes held mine, and I lost my train of thought. I stared at him until he looked away. You haven't asked me — Stephenie Meyer

Some people are natural beauties, some have great style, but sometimes it comes from talent. Take Kate Winslet: I was listening to her speech at the Golden Globes. That woman has so much intensity. She's amazing to watch and to listen to. With some people, it can even be their voice that makes them attractive. — Mary-Kate Olsen

Selah Moments: those times we lean into God's presence, hear His voice, and willingly receive the golden nuggets of truth-revelation He gifts us with. — Jo Ann Fore

And there is such honesty and innocence to her voice I want to hold her. The bedside lamplight is a rich golden color, and it is falling on her face in a way that makes it seem gilded. For a moment, L.D. looks to me like an angel. Another case of illusion only being the larger truth. — Elizabeth Berg

With his current mood, Elizabeth realized, she was going to have to make her own opening. Lifting her eyes to his enigmatic golden ones, she said quietly, "Ian, have you ever wanted something very badly-something that
was within your grasp-and yet you were afraid to reach out for it?"
Surprised by her grave question and her use of his name, Ian tried to ignore the jealousy that had been eating at him all night. "No," he said, scrupulously keeping the curtness from his voice as he gazed down at her alluring face. "Why do you ask? Is there something you want?"
Her gaze fell from his, and she nodded at his frilled white shirtfront.
"What is it you want?"
"You. — Judith McNaught

What are you thinking? Sandwiches?" Finn asked in a hopeful voice. "No. I'm in the mood for something sweet." I grabbed the butter out of the fridge, then rummaged through the cabinets. Flour, oats, dried apricots, golden raisins, brown sugar, vanilla. I pulled them out, along with some mixing cups, a baking pan, a spatula, and a bowl. Finn settled himself at the kitchen table and drank his coffee while I worked. By the time Jo-Jo walked back into the kitchen, I was sliding the batter into the oven. "Whatcha making?" the dwarf asked, pouring herself a cup of coffee. "Apricot bars, — Jennifer Estep

And when he ran the blades over her she felt light as a feather, floating happily into that place where pain and pleasure walked hand in hand, fully clear and conscious and she looked out to the darkness that lay outside of their artificial day. All too soon it was gone, her vision dimming and her breaths evening as she found somewhere darker which centred around the golden light of her Master's voice as he spoke to her. — Astrid Knowles

He was staring at her mouth with what looked like raw hunger, his eyes turning more golden by the second.

"Do that again," he ordered softly, his voice a dark purr from across the table.

Mia's heart skipped a beat. — Anna Zaires

If you are a singer and you lose your voice, you realize that you have other skill sets when that is taken out of the equation. — Annie Golden

Don't be afraid of loving this man, Maria had told her. Don't be afraid. Her slender fingers closed around the warm shaft with its velvet skin stretched smooth. Gently her fingers played over him, curious, wondering fingers, fingers made exultant by their discoveries.
Reflexively Jared arched his back. His head went back in a gesture of exquisite feeling. Then his chin lowered and he was searching her face again. His golden eyes shone bright with emotion. "Touch me, Lauren. Touch me until I die from the pleasure of it. Know all of me." His voice was breathy and uneven. — Sandra Brown

This time Magnus answered it, his voice booming through the tiny entryway. "WHO DARES DISTURB MY REST?"
Jace looked almost nervous. "Jace Wayland. Remember? I'm from the Clave."
"Oh, yes." Magnus seemed to have perked up. "Are you the one with the blue eyes?"
"He means Alec," Clary said helpfully.
"No. My eyes are usually described as golden," Jace told the intercom. "And luminous."
"Oh, you're that one." Magnus sounded disappointed. If Clary hadn't been so upset, she would have laughed. "I suppose you'd better come up. — Cassandra Clare

another motive as well - namely, to preserve her voice, which had a quality of expressiveness I have rarely encountered. Customarily she spoke with a soft tone, as one might expect of a woman who has made a career of entertaining men. — Arthur Golden

Out of the trees came faerie after faerie, the entirety of the Dark Court, who had apparently been listening to the whole exchange. I looked at Reth, shocked, but he just smiled. I clenched my jaw and shook my head, annoyed. They'd had a plan all along, and it hadn't involved me. I was here for show - Hey, look! Our pet Empty One! You can hitch a ride back if you join now! Limited time offer!
"I did warn her you were less likely to come if you thought you weren't in charge," Reth said, his voice cracked but his tone self-congratulatory.
"Did you warn her I'm highly likely to back out of the entire thing if you piss me off?"
"Perhaps you had better watch your back, stupid glowy golden faerie man whore."
He frowned at me. "That made no sense."
"Good! Now maybe I can join your club." I took a step away from him but immediately felt terrible when he swayed and looked like he was going to fall. — Kiersten White

One of these, bearing the name of Crampton, is an adorable blonde with a shrill voice, a long slender body imprisoned in a shiny brass corset, and supple catlike movements; a smart golden blonde whose extraordinary grace can be quite terrifying when she stiffens her muscles of steel, sends the sweat pouring down her steaming flanks, sets her elegant wheels spinning in their wide circles, and hurtles away, full of life, at the head of an express or a boat-train.
The other, Engerth by name, is a strapping saturnine brunette given to uttering raucous, guttural cries, with a thickset figure encased in armor-plating of cast iron; a monstrous creature with her disheveled mane of black smoke and her six wheels coupled together low down, she gives an indication of her fantastic strength when, with an effort that shakes the very earth, she slowly and deliberately drags along her heavy train of goods-wagons. — Joris-Karl Huysmans

Leah's baby was nestled protectively in the crook of Devon's arm.
In the golden firelight, his expression appeared grim. The neck of his shirt was open, the sleeves rolled up. With a soft gasp of mother love, Leah reached for her child. But Devon's deep, silky voice stopped her.
"Who is the baby's father? And do you love him?"
She froze. Her mouth went dry. Her heart pounded in her chest.
He waited. — Cathy Maxwell

Unable to bear the silence, she looked over her shoulder. Seth was leaning against the door, arms crossed, watching her, an enigmatic smile on his face. The golden glow of the lamplight washed over his face, highlighting his five o'clock shadow. She was suddenly aware that her hair had come loose from her ponytail. That her worn jeans and T-shirt were probably smudged with who-knew-what. This wasn't how she'd imagined looking when Seth kissed her. Why hadn't she done something with herself while he was gone? But judging by the look on his face, he didn't care about any of that. No longer needing the fire's warmth, she moved away, lifting her chin and tossing her ponytail over her shoulder. "What?" "I won," he said quietly. "Won what?" Did he hear the tremor in her voice? His lips twitched. "Our deal . . . sleigh by midnight . . . the kiss . . . Ring any bells? — Denise Hunter

Of course I was happy to sit and listen, but I understood perfectly well that the Chairman wasn't telling these things to me because he wanted me to know them. He was clearing them from his mind, just like draining water from a bucket. So I listened closely not to his words, but to the tone of his voice; because in the same way that sound rises as a bucket is emptied, I could hear the Chairman's voice softening as he spoke. — Arthur Golden

Have you had much luck tonight?" she asked.
His gaze slipped to the neat stacks of coins in front of her. "No' as much as ye, my lady."
She let her own stare trail across her piles of winnings. Shame sizzled against her cheeks.,,,
"Perhaps I'm lucky tonight myself," he said.
The silky undertone in his voice crept up her back like the skilled swipe of a musician's fingers strumming a harp.
"What do you mean?" Of course she knew what he meant, but the glint of flirtation in his eye begged her to prompt him for the compliment.
A golden dollop of honey dribbled to lure the bee.
And she buzzed ever closer.
He pulled his freshly dealt cards toward him. "Perhaps I'm lucky tonight because I've met ye. — Madeline Martin

Her voice is full of money, ...
That was it. I'd never understood before. It was full of money- that was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the cymbals' song of it ... High in a white palace the king's daughter, the golden girl ... — F Scott Fitzgerald

Someday decades from now, when you and Sabine are hobbling around in your old-people pants and orthopedic shoes, yelling at grandchildren and reminiscing about the days when you could still see your feet, unimpeded by the view of your gut, I will still be basking in the glow of eternal youth, forever young, forever golden, forever - "
"In love with the face in the mirror and the sound of your own voice," I finished for him, and Nash laughed. — Rachel Vincent

Sleep pressed upon him with an urgency that became resistless. And April Bell was calling to him. Her voice came clearly to him, above all the subdued murmur of traffic noises. It was a ringing golden chime, more penetrating than the occasional beep of a driver's horn or the far clamor of a streetcar. It shimmered out of the dark, in waves of pure light as green as her malachite eyes. Then he thought he could see her, somehow, far across the slumberous town. Only she wasn't a woman. — Jack Williamson

It was a rich and wonderful voice, with every diphthong gliding beautifully into place. It was a golden brown voice. If the Creator of the multiverse had a voice, it was a voice such as this. If it had a drawback, it was that it wasn't a voice you could use, for example, for ordering coal. Coal ordered by this voice would become diamonds. — Terry Pratchett

The voice in my head is is fond of upper-case. It's like having a sub-cranial golden retriever. — Tabitha McGowan

I mean, there's a lot of other things I could do for money. I could sell autographed ECT machines or rhinestoned mood stabilizers or even Star Wars scented laxatives. But do I do that? Do I do a commercial on television to (attempt to) sell a medication while running around some random backyard with some rented golden retriever laughing and looking cured and totally amazed to be so worry-free while a voice comes on and says, "Reginol is not recommended for wayward fish or Libras with dementia. If you notice swelling in your femur or notice a subtle beam of backlight glowing northward from your anus or the anus of someone you went to school with, call your doctor immediately as this could be a symptom of hydrocephalus that could lead to roughhousing and misguided bloat. Reginol is not recommended for pregnant Nazis or yodelers over seventy. Reginol does not protect you from unpopularity or autism . . . " All — Carrie Fisher

Follow your heart, listen to your inner voice, and always remember that it's never to late to make your dreams come true — Sandra Golden

Eena!"
Recognizing Ian's voice, Eena turned to find him approaching her from behind. He was entirely clad in body armor and gauntlets, cradling an open-faced helmet in one arm. Painted on his chest plate was a flaming, gold sword. From his side hung a leather sheath, a golden hilt peeking from the top.
"I'm glad you're back. You are going to stay and watch us play, aren't you?" He looked hopeful she'd say yes.
Eena smiled brightly. "I didn't know you were talented enough to be on a dueling team. Nice sword," she teased.
Ian blushed a degree. "Thanks. They call us the Savage Warriors!" He rasped their team name in a semi-ferocious voice. "Jerin's team captain."
She laughed at the showy designation. "And who's your challenger today?"
"The Dragon Slayers - Derian's team."
Eena's face fell. "Derian is playing?" She groaned internally, knowing she should've guessed as much. This was starting to look like another setup. — Richelle E. Goodrich

Remember children, once I am gone I will be part of it all
Everything will be me and together be free
The songs of the birds will be my voice in joyous refrain
The caress of the soft summer breeze will be my touch from afar
The sunset in glorious golden red hues, my display of love
The soft murmur of the stream as it lulls you to sleep my lullaby
Close your eyes and open your heart that I may touch you.
There shall I dwell ever close, embracing you with every beat of your heart
Smile and feel the joy I share now with you. — Neil Leckman

These Moments Cascade Upon One Another
Here at shepherd's dusk, in a valley without echo, I listen for you. With a frayed longing, I hear your shadow voice whispering within me from far away. I grasp at what is left of this husky sun lying golden upon the upper meadows of lodge pole and bear grass. I gather the last remnants of the evening's breeze, so cool and lazy within my arms, feeling it curl up like a small and innocent kitten. And I see that behind a cloak of clouds, dalliance suits the canting moon. Suddenly I do not wish to lose another moment, And I covet all pristine light. — Carew Papritz

Your voice sounds like a midnight fire. All warm and worn in and golden. I could listen to you talk forever."
"I could never do that".
She laughed at him. He brought his lips to her ear.
"Your scent is like violets early in spring," he whispered. Then he laughed at himself because though it was true, he sounded like the worst kind of fool. — Veronica Rossi

Jerusalem the golden, with milk and honey blessed, beneath thy contemplation sink heart and voice oppressed. — John Mason Neale

If thou speakest not I will fill my heart with thy silence and endure it.
I will keep still and wait like the night with starry vigil
and its head bent low with patience.
The morning will surely come, the darkness will vanish,
and thy voice pour down in golden streams breaking through the sky.
Then thy words will take wing in songs from every one of my birds' nests,
and thy melodies will break forth in flowers in all my forest groves. — Rabindranath Tagore

In any case, if the reader would have a correct idea of the mood of these exiles, we must conjure up once more those dreary evenings, sifting down through a haze of dust and golden light upon the treeless streets filled with teeming crowds of men and women. For, characteristically, the sound that rose towards the terraces still bathed in the last glow of daylight, now that the noises of vehicles and motors
the sole voice of cities in ordinary times
had ceased, was but one vast rumour of low voices and incessant footfalls, the drumming of innumerable soles timed to the eerie whistling of the plague in the sultry air above, the sound of a huge concourse of people marking time, a never-ending, stifling drone that, gradually swelling, filled the town from end to end, and evening after evening gave its truest, mournfullest expression to the blind endurance which had ousted love from all our hearts. — Albert Camus

John Gilbert was perfectly willing to jump into talkies. He had as good a voice as Clark Gable. There was such a divide between the silent and talkies. There was no logic to who survived and who didn't. — Eve Golden

I am not your kind," Vos said, his voice thick. "I do not feed off vengeance." Truth was quiet. It did not need to shout or to demand. It simply existed. "I am a Jedi. — Christie Golden

A streak of green fire blasted out of the back of the shed, passed a foot over the heads of the mob, and burned a charred rosette in the woodwork over the door.
Then came a voice that was a honeyed purr of sheer deadly menance.
"This is Lord Mountjoy Quickfang Winterforth IV, the hottest dragon in the city. It could burn your head clean off."
Captain Vimes limped forward from the shadows. A small and extremely frightened golden dragon was clamped firmly under one arm. His other hand held it by the tail. The rioters watched it, hypnotized.
"Now I know what you're thinking," Vimes went on, softly. "You're wondering, after all this excitement, has it got enough flame left? And, y'know, I ain't so sure myself ... "
He leaned forward, sighting between the dragon's ears, and his voice buzzed like a knife blade: "What you've got to ask yourself is: Am I feeling lucky? — Terry Pratchett

When the girl returned, some hours later, she carried a tray, with a cup of fragrant tea steaming on it; and a plate piled up with very hot buttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter running through the holes in great golden drops, like honey from the honeycomb. The smell of that buttered toast simply talked to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one's ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender, of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries. — Kenneth Grahame

She glanced at the bathroom door once more, her cheeks growing warm as the glass door slid open and Kane emerged from the steamy shower stall.
Naked.
She swallowed, unable to tear her eyes away from his nude, dripping-wet body. He had the kind of rock-hard physique that would make other women drool. His broad chest tapered to a trim waist, and his legs were thick and dusted with golden hair. He was lean, not bulky, with perfectly sculpted muscles that looked like they'd been carved out of marble. He was hard. Everywhere.
"I'm afraid it's too late for you to join me in the shower," he said in a silky voice. "Though we could still make good use of the bed. — Elle Kennedy

When he saw her sitting there all alone, so young, and good, and beautiful, and kind to him; and heard her thrilling voice, so natural and sweet, and such a golden link between him and all his life's love and happiness, rising out of the silence; he turned his face away, and hid his tears. — Charles Dickens

When the nature of mind is introduced by a master, it is just too simple for us to believe. Our ordinary mind tells us this cannot be, there must be something more to it than this. It must surely be more "glorious", with light blazing in space around us, angels with flowing golden hair swooping down to meet us, and a deep Wizard of Oz voice announcing, "Now you have been introduced to the nature of your mind." There is no such drama. — Sogyal Rinpoche

Stranger, think long before you enter,
For these corridors amuse not passing travellers.
But if you enter, keep your voice to yourself.
Nor should you tinkle and toll your tongue.
These columns rose not, for the such as you.
But for those urgent pilgrim feet that wander
On lonely ways, seeking the roots of rootless trees.
The earth has many flowery roads; choose one
That pleases your whim, and gods be with you.
But now leave! - leave me to my dark green solitude
Which like the deep dream world of the sea
Has its moving shapes; corals; ancient coins;
Carved urns and ruins of ancient ships and gods;
And mermaids, with flowing golden hair
That charm a patch of silent darkness
Into singing sunlight. — G.A. Kulkarni

When your heart flows broad and full like a river, a blessing and a danger to those living near: there is the origin of your virtue.
When you are above praise and blame, and your will wants to command all things, like a lover's will: there is the origin of your virtue.
When you despise the agreeable and the soft bed and cannot bed yourself far enough from the soft: there is the origin of your virtue.
When you will with a single will and you call this cessation of all need "necessity": there is the origin of your virtue.
Verily, a new good and evil is she. Verily, a new deep murmur and the voice of a new well!
Power is she, this new virtue; a dominant thought is she, and around her a wise soul: a golden sun, and around it the serpent of knowledge. — Friedrich Nietzsche

He first saw her in a ray of sunshine. She was dancing and singing in a forest clearing, her golden hair sparkling as it swirled around her. Her voice was the very essence of a happy, sunny day distilled into song. She was as weightless on her toes as golden motes in a drowsy beam, floating their way up to the ceiling. — Liz Braswell

And every day there is music. One dark voice will start a phrase, half-sung, and like a question. And after a moment another voice will join in, soon the whole gang will be singing. The voices are dark in the golden glare, the music intricately blended, both somber and joyful. The music will swell until at last it seems that the sound does not come from the twelve men on the gang, but from the earth itself, or the wide sky. It is music that causes the heart to broaden and the listener to grow cold with ecstasy and fright. Then slowly the music will sink down until at last there remains one lonely voice, then a great hoarse breath, the sun, the sound of the picks in the silence.
And what kind of gang is this that can make such music? Just twelve mortal men, seven of them black and five of them white boys from this country. Just twelve mortal men who are together. — Carson McCullers