Your Voice Is Music To My Ears Quotes & Sayings

I was ten when I heard the music that ended the first phase of my life and cast me hurtling into a new horizon. Drenched to the skin, I stood on Dunoon's pier peering seawards through diagonal rain, looking for the ferry that would take me home. There, on the everwet west coast of Scotland, I heard it: like sonic scalpels, the sounds of electric guitars sliced through the dreich weather. My body hairs pricked up, each one a willing receiver for the Thunder-God grooves. To my young ears, the sound of these amplified guitars was angelic (although, with hindsight, I don't suppose angels play Gibson guitars at ear-bleeding volume). A voice that suggested vocal chords of polished silver soared alongside razor-sharp overdriven riffs. I knew that I was hearing the future. — Mark Rice

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

Every morning he went for a walk with his wife, Reine-Marie, and their German shepherd Henri. Tossing the tennis ball ahead of them, they ended up chasing it down themselves when Henri became distracted by a fluttering leaf, or a black fly, or the voices in his head. The dog would race after the ball, then stop and stare into thin air, moving his gigantic satellite ears this way and that. Honing in on some message. Not tense, but quizzical. It was, Gamache recognized, the way most people listened when they heard on the wind the wisps of a particularly beloved piece of music. Or a familiar voice from far away. — Louise Penny

Boredom speaks the language of time, and it is to teach you the most valuable lesson in your life
... the lesson of your utter insignificance. It is valuable to you, as well as to those you are to rub shoulders with. 'You are finite,' time tells you in a voice of boredom, 'and whatever you do is, from my point of view, futile.' As music to your ears, this, of course, may not count; yet the sense of futility, of limited significance even of your best, most ardent actions is better than the illusion of their consequence and the attendant self-satisfaction. — Joseph Brodsky

His door opened, and Michael filled the doorway.
Gabriel yanked the headphones out of his ears, but music still poured out against his comforter. "Ever hear of knocking?"
He wanted his voice to be sharp, but he couldn't generate the usual anger.
He's not worthless. And you're out of line.
"I did knock," said Michael. "Three times. — Brigid Kemmerer

A friend of mine once told me that I can't screw up when I play my own music. I also take voice lessons, play other peoples' songs out of music books, and occasionally figure out how to play other people's music from records. This keeps my ears, fingers, and mind working. — Lisa Loeb

He pushes in then, slowly, deeply, stroking a chord inside of me. My breath hitches. Oh God.
"I love that sound," he whispers, his voice gritty. "It's the best music in the world."
I wrap my arms around him. "Maybe that should be your ringtone, then."
He laughs, his face nuzzled into my neck. "That wouldn't work."
"Why?"
"Because others would hear it. That sound belongs only to my ears. — J.M. Darhower

Once, a few weeks ago, she'd heard a girl's voice in there and wondered if it was porn on the computer until she could tell it wasn't. She heard the voice say Eli's name. E-liii. She'd turned her music as loud as she could, held her hands to her ears, even sang to herself, eyes clamped shut. She hoped he heard her fling off her Ked so hard it hit the wall. She hoped he remembered she was here. — Megan Abbott

Would you like to?" he says. His voice is hardly audible above the wind
so low it's barely a whisper.
"Would I like to what?" My heart is roaring, rushing in my ears, and though
there are still several inches between his hand and mine, there's a zipping,
humming energy that connects us, and from the heat flooding my body you
would think we were pressed together, palm to palm, face to face.
"Dance," he says, at the same time closing those last few inches and finding
my hand and pulling me closer, and at that second the song hits a high note and I
confuse the two impressions, of his hand and the soaring, the lifting of the music.
We dance. — Lauren Oliver

The heavenly motions ... are nothing but a continuous song for several voices, perceived not by the ear but by the intellect, a figured music which sets landmarks in the immeasurable flow of time. — Johannes Kepler