Terry Pratchett Quotes

I love a visceral sound, the kind that hits you in the belly.

Explosions are not comfortable.

Jack the sound barrier. Bring the noise.

That spin became so violent, it was hard to know how to get out of it. I was able to get it under control and break the speed of sound...I could feel myself break the speed of sound. I could feel the air building up and then I hit it.

That noise in my earphones knocked my nose off and I had to pick it up and find it.

If the deaf are to hear the sound has to be very loud

I thought I wanted to go to drama school or university, and that would have been a completely different life. But what got me was the sound, and hearing it. Hearing everything so loud, I loved that back in the studio. I loved that from the very beginning.

A screaming comes across the sky. It has happened before, but there is nothing to compare it to now.

It's not easy to write an understated score over a loud one.

Do not several sorts of Rays make Vibrations of several bignesses, which according to their bigness excite Sensations of several Colours, much after the manner that the Vibrations of the Air, according to their several bignesses excite Sensations of several Sounds? And particularly do not the most refrangible Rays excite the shortest Vibrations for making a Sensation of deep violet, the least refrangible the largest form making a Sensation of deep red, and several intermediate sorts of Rays, Vibrations of several intermediate bignesses to make Sensations of several intemediate Colours?

The voice is nothing but beaten air.

Being inside Tiger Stadium is like being on the inside of a drum.

See for me, it’s immediate. Silence is so freaking loud.' This seemed either deep or deeply oxymoronic. I wasn’t sure which.

Soun is noght but air ybroken, And every speche that is spoken, Loud or privee, foul or fair, In his substaunce is but air; For as flaumbe is but lighted smoke, Right so soun is air ybroke.

My idea is that there is music in the air, music all around us; the world is full of it, and you simply take as much as you require.

The medium of poetry is not words, the medium of poetry is not lines-it is the motion of air inside the human body, coming out through the chest and the voice box and through the mouth to shape sounds that have meaning. It's bodily.

When I'm with you, bells go off in my head like a moving truck that's backing up.

Watson, ... if I can get a mechanism which will make a current of electricity vary in its intensity, as the air varies in density when a sound is passing through it, I can telegraph any sound, even the sound of speech.

Therapy isn't Radio.We don't need to constantly fill the air with sounds. Sometimes, when its quite, surprising things happen.

Never stop feeling and seeing and being excited with great things like air and engines and sounds of sunlight within you.

As empty vessels make the loudest sound, so they that have the least wit are the greatest blabbers

Now the dark air is like fire on my skin, And even the moonlight is blinding

Time becomes a stutter-the space between drumbeats, splintered into fragments, and also endlessly long, as long as soaring guitar notes that melt into one another, as full as the dark mass of bodies around me. I feel like the air downstairs has gone to liquid, to sweat and smell and sound, and I have broken apart in it. I am wave: I am pulled into the everything. I am energy and noise and a heartbeat going boom, boom, boom, echoing the drums.

Hear the sledges with the bells, Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night, While the stars that oversprinkle All the Heavens seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight: Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- From the jingling and the tingling of the bells.