I'll tell you what I would do in a shot if I could. I would sing in the barbershop quartet in The Music Man.
The communication of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.
One is that you have to take time, lots of time, to let an idea grow from within. The second is that when you sign on to something, there will be issues of trust, deep trust, the way the members of a string quartet have to trust one another.
There was one thing Beethoven didn't do. When one of his string quartets was played, you can believe the second violin wasn't improvising.
Humankind cannot bear very much reality.
Only through time time is conquered
Footfalls echo in the memory, down the passage we did not take, towards the door we never opened, into the rose garden.
Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past. If all time is eternally present All time is unredeemable.
Quick now, here, now, always- A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought.
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
The Detroit String Quartet played Brahms last night. Brahms lost.
The end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started.
We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.
We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. Through the unknown, remembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree Not known, because not looked for But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea.
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith, But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
You are the music while the music lasts.
The end is where we start from.
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope, For hope would be hope for the wrong thing.
How could a New Yorker possibly take something called the Hollywood String Quartet seriously?
music heard so deeply That it is not heard at all, but you are the music While the music lasts.
I said to my soul, be still and wait without hope, for hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, for love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith, but the faith and the love are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.
The dove descending breaks the air With flame of incandescent terror Of which the tongues declare The one discharge from sin and error. The only hope, or else despair Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre- To be redeemed from fire by fire. Who then devised the torment? Love. Love is the unfamiliar Name Behind the hands that wove The intolerable shirt of flame Which human power cannot remove. We only live, only suspire Consumed by either fire or fire.
There are three conditions which often look alike Yet differ completely, flourish in the same hedgerow: Attachment to self and to things and to persons, detachment From self and from things and from persons; and, growing between them, indifference, ... .
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