Charles Frazier Quotes

With 'Mad Men,' people who grew up or were living in that time, they love to talk about what it was really like.

Being at boarding school in the pre-internet era, especially a boarding school tucked away in the Oxfordshire countryside, was like being in a cocoon. You had your own life; world events happened elsewhere.

Growing up in the middle of nowhere, there was a lot of twangy music around, but it didn't really connect with me then.

Where I grew up, we had the three TV networks, maybe two radio stations, no cable TV. We still had a long-distance party line in our neighborhood, so you could listen to all your neighbors' phone calls. We had a very small public library, and the nearest bookstore was an hour away.

I live in the woods, so really the only way you can get to me is if you send a letter.

I grew up in a very small town, on a farm. There was not even a TV in my house at that time. I didn't have much connection with the outside world and couldn't see martial arts. When I was 10 or 12, that's when we got our first TV. We only had maybe two channels. At 16 years old, I remember watching Marco Ruas on TV.

Music sweeps by me as a messenger - Carrying a message that is not for me

...and again she wished for Sherwood, and the dappled roof of leaves that never weighed upon her. She pulled her scarf closer around her and thought, I would rather live in a hut in the woods; a hut like the one of my first memories, with a clean-swept dirt floor, and a brown-eyed boy watching me from behind his mother's skirts as I watched him from behind mine.

For the first time, he heard something that he knew to be music. He heard people singing. Behind him, across vast distances of space and time, from the place he had left, he thought he heard music too. But perhaps, it was only an echo.

Everything I loved had been dead for two centuries - or, as in the case of Graeco-Roman classicism, for two milenniums. I am never a part of anything around me - in everything I am an outsider. Should I find it possible to crawl backward through the Halls of Time to that age which is nearest my own fancy, I should doubtless be bawled out of the coffee-houses for heresy in religion, or else lampooned by John Dennis till I found refuge in the deep, silent Thames, that covers many another unfortunate.

I have a very primitive sense that if I just turn on a radio or the television, that somebody's playing that stuff for me.

A man wants nothing so badly as a gooseberry farm.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.

We sometimes feel that we have been really understood, but it was always long ago, by someone now dead.

I miss home badly sometimes. But then I remember there's nothing left to miss anymore. I feel safer here.

I hate this feeling. Like I'm here, but I'm not. Like someone cares. But they don't. Like I belong somewhere else, anywhere but here, and escape lies just past that snowy window, cool and crisp as the February air.

All memory can do is scream for touch.

A single note, held in an amber suspension of time, like a charcoal drawing of Icarus falling. It was sad and fierce all at once, alive with a lonely purity. It went on and on, until my own lungs were burning. “What bird are you calling?” I asked finally, when I couldn’t stand it any longer. The Bird Man stopped whistling. He grinned, so that I could see all his pebbly teeth. “You.

..I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.) I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)

The desert sharpened the sweet ache of his longing, amplified it, gave shape to it in sere geology and clean slant of light.

I miss THE WALLFLOWERS. Great band. Wrote my first Fan letter to them. No response.

She was the music heard faintly on the edge of sound.

The sun was hot on my skin, too bright as it bounced off the white concrete and blinded me. I felt dangerously exposed. More fiercely than I would have dreamed I was capable of, I wished for the green, protective forest of Forks . . . of home.

You want to dance. You want to sing. Yeah, that feeling, of course, is beyond recollection really.

I was sad to leave Europe in 1890, after my student days in Germany... But then, once back in New York, I experienced an intense longing for Europe, for its vital tradition of music, theatre, art, craftsmanship... I felt bewildered and lonely. How was I to use myself?