Piano Quotes

Quotes tagged as "piano" Showing 1-30 of 120
“The pianokeys are black and white
but they sound like a million colors in your mind”
Maria Cristina Mena, The Collected Stories of Maria Cristina Mena

Robert Schumann
“When you play, never mind who listens to you.”
Robert Schumann

Thelonious Monk
“The piano ain't got no wrong notes.”
Thelonious Monk

Marie Rutkoski
“Arin. I've wanted to do this for a long time."

Her words silenced him, steadied him.

Anticipation lifted within her like the fragrance of a garden under the rain. She sat at the piano, touching the keys. "Ready?"

He smiled. "Play.”
Marie Rutkoski, The Winner's Kiss

E.M. Forster
“The kingdom of music is not the kingdom of this world; it will accept those whom breeding and intellect and culture have alike rejected. The commonplace person begins to play, and shoots into the empyrean without effort, whilst we look up, marvelling how he has escaped us, and thinking how we could worship him and love him, would he but translate his visions into human words, and his experiences into human actions. Perhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or does so very seldom.”
E.M. Forster, A Room with a View

Nathan Reese Maher
“All is as if the world did cease to exist. The city's monuments go unseen, its past unheard, and its culture slowly fading in the dismal sea.”
Nathan Reese Maher

Artur Schnabel
“The notes I handle no better than many pianists. But the pauses between the notes - ah, that is where the art resides.”
Artur Schnabel

Robert Schumann
“Play always as if in the presence of a master.”
Robert Schumann

Robert Schumann
“If, while at the piano, you attempt to form little melodies, that is very well; but if they come into your mind of themselves, when you are not practising, you may be still more pleased; for the internal organ of music is then roused in you. The fingers must do what the head desires; not the contrary.”
Robert Schumann

Anna Goldsworthy
“I tell you a secret about Chopin, piano is his best friend. More. He tells piano all his secrets.” - piano teacher Eleanora Sivan.”
Anna Goldsworthy, Piano Lessons: A Memoir

Francesca Lia Block
“Pianos, unlike people, sing when you give them your every growl. They know how to dive into the pit of your stomach and harmonize with your roars when you’ve split yourself open. And when they see you, guts shining, brain pulsing, heart right there exposed in a rhythm that beats need need, need need, need need, pianos do not run. And so she plays.”
Francesca Lia Block, Love Magick

Vladimir Nabokov
“I dreamt of you last night - as if I was playing the piano and you were turning the pages for me.”
Vladimir Nabokov

Bob Hope
“When she started to play, Steinway came down personally and rubbed his name off the piano. ”
Bob Hope

Tori Amos
“Everybody told me this 'girl on the piano' thing was never going to work.”
Tori Amos

Edith Sitwell
“I wish the government would put a tax on pianos for the incompetent.”
Edith Sitwell

Victor Borge
“(Referring to the piano's natural shape) Isn't it a shame when those big fat opera singers lean against the pianos and bend them?”
Victor Borge

Gustave Flaubert
“As for the piano, the faster her fingers flew over it, the more he marveled. She struck the keys with aplomb and ran from one end of the keyboard to the other without a stop.”
Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary

Beth Fantaskey
“On the stage Tristen bent over the piano, his fingers swift and sure, his blond hair gleaming under the spotlight. I glanced around at the audience, watching their faces, gratified that they were as captivated as I was by the dark, thunderous song that Tristen conjured.”
Beth Fantaskey , Jekel Loves Hyde

Debra Anastasia
“Listening to him play was like discovering an eagle in the wild. It was tumblingly bewitching. She could feel and hear genius she knew it.”
Debra Anastasia, Poughkeepsie

Lauren Groff
“She always wanted to be the kind of person who could play the "Moonlight" Sonata.

She buries her failure in this, as she buries all her failures, in reading.”
Lauren Groff, Florida

Kate Furnivall
“She always paid attention to fingers rather than faces because they told so much more. People remembered to guard their faces. They forgot their hands. Her own were small, though strong and supple from all the hours of piano playing, but what use was that now? For the first time she understood what real danger does to the human mind, as flat white fear froze the coils of her brain.”
Kate Furnivall, The Jewel of St. Petersburg

Frederick Weisel
“Do you know what the essential problem of the piano is?” he asked. He held me so his head was a few inches from my own. His eyes darted back and forth. “It is impossible to play continuously on a piano string like a violin. The problem is to sustain a note.”
Frederick Weisel, Teller

“Life is like playing a piano. As the piano has black and white keys in the same way life has sad and happy moments. And we need to have both sadness and happiness in our life to play the perfect symphony!”
Avijeet Das

“Life is like a piano. As the piano has white and black keys in the same way life has happy and sad moments. And we need to have both happiness and sadness in our life to play the perfect symphony!”
Avijeet Das

“My love for my grand piano is eternal”
Sami Abouzid
tags: piano

Natsu Miyashita
“When you heard Kazune play, it summoned up visible, tangible scenery. Light shining down among the trees, wet with morning dew. Drops of water sparkling on the tips of leaves, then dripping down. One morning, repeated over and over again. A vibrancy and solemnity born fresh and new.”
Natsu Miyashita, 羊と鋼の森

“Ricorda quelle notti in cui nessuno era lì per te, ma il tuo pianoforte a coda”
Sami Abouzid
tags: piano

Karen Hesse
“When I point my fingers at the keys, the music springs straight out of me. Right hand playing notes sharp as tongues, telling stories while the smooth buttery rhythms back me up on the left.”
Karen Hesse, Out of the Dust

Marcel Proust
“L'année précédente, dans une soirée, il avait entendu une oeuvre musicale exécutée au piano et au violon. D'abord, il n'avait goûté que la qualité matérielle des sons sécrétés par les instruments. Et ç'avait déjà été un grand plaisir quand au-dessous de la petite ligne du violon mince, résistante, dense et directrice, il avait vu tout d'un coup chercher à s'élever en un clapotement liquide, la masse de la partie de piano, multiforme, indivise, plane et entrechoquée comme la mauve agitation des flots que charme et bémolise le clair de lune.”
Marcel Proust, Swann's Way

Marcel Proust
“Le beau dialogue que Swann entendit entre le piano et le violon au commencement du dernier morceau! La suppression des mots humains, loin d'y laisser régner la fantaisie, comme on aurait pu croire, l'en avait éliminée ; jamais le langage parlé ne fut si inflexiblement nécessité, ne connut à ce point la pertinence des questions, l'évidence des réponses. D'abord le piano solitaire se plaignit, comme un oiseau abandonné de sa compagne ; le violon l'entendit, lui répondit comme d'un arbre voisin. C'était comme au commencement du monde, comme s'il n'y avait encore eu qu'eux deux sur la terre, ou plutôt dans ce monde fermé à tout le reste, construit par la logique d'un créateur et où ils ne seraient jamais que tous les deux : cette sonate. Est-ce un oiseau, est-ce l'âme incomplète encore de la petite phrase, est-ce une fée, invisible et gémissant dont le piano ensuite redisait tendrement la plainte? Ses cris étaient si soudains que le violoniste devait se précipiter sur son archet pour les recueillir. Merveilleux oiseau! le violoniste semblait vouloir le charmer, l'apprivoiser, le capter. Déjà il avait passé dans son âme, déjà la petite phrase évoquée agitait comme celui d'un médium le corps vraiment possédé du violoniste. Swann savait qu'elle allait parler encore une fois. Et il s'était si bien dédoublé que l'attente de l'instant imminent où il allait se retrouver en face d'elle le secoua d'un de ces sanglots qu'un beau vers ou une triste nouvelle provoquent en nous, non pas quand nous sommes seuls, mais si nous les apprenons à des amis en qui nous nous apercevons comme un autre dont l'émotion probable les attendrit. Elle reparut, mais cette fois pour se suspendre dans l'air et se jouer un instant seulement, comme immobile, et pour expirer après. Aussi Swann ne perdait-il rien du temps si court où elle se prorogeait. Elle était encore là comme une bulle irisée qui se soutient. Tel un arc-en-ciel, dont l'éclat faiblit, s'abaisse, puis se relève et avant de s'éteindre, s'exalte un moment comme il n'avait pas encore fait : aux deux couleurs qu'elle avait jusque-là laissé paraître, elle ajouta d'autres cordes diaprées, toutes celles du prisme, et les fit chanter. Swann n'osait pas bouger et aurait voulu faire tenir tranquilles aussi les autres personnes, comme si le moindre mouvement avait pu compromettre le prestige surnaturel, délicieux et fragile qui était si près de s'évanouir.”
Marcel Proust, Swann's Way

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