Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
Nature was my kindergarten.
Saving was slow and painful.
I hate to see the evening sun go down.
The blues - the sound of a sinner on revival day.
You'll never miss the water 'til the well runs dry.
My big ears indicated a talent for music. This thrilled me.
I knew the whistle of each of the river boats on the Tennessee.
With a guitar I would be able to express the things I felt in sounds.
I think America concedes that true American music has sprung from the Negro.
Life is something like a trumpet. If you don't put anything in, you won't get anything out.
Life is like a trumpet - if you don't put anything into it, you don't get anything out of it.
You can never tell what's in a woman's mind, And if she's from Harlem, there's no use o' tryin
Setting my mind on a musical instrument was like falling in love. All the world seemed bright and changed.
You've got to appreciate the things that come from the art of the Negro and from the heart of the man farthest down.
Sometimes I feel like nothin,' somethin' throwed away, Somethin' throwed away. And then I get my guitar, play the blues all day.
Where the Tennessee River, like a silver snake, winds her way through the clay hills of Alabama, sits high on these hills, my home town, Florence.
Whenever I heard the song of a bird and the answering call of its mate, I could visualize the notes in scale, all built up within my consciousness as a natural symphony.
If my serenade of song and story should serve as a pillow for some composer's head, as yet perhaps unborn, to dream and build on our fond melodies in his tomorrow, I have not labored in vain.
In the South of long ago whenever a new man appeared for work in any of the laborers gangs, he would be asked if he could sing. If he could he got the job. The singing of these working men set the rhythm for the work.
The name of my ailment was longing, and it was not cured till I finally went to the department store and counted out the money in small coins before the dismayed clerk. When I came to the house, I held up the instrument before the eyes of the astonished household.
A lean, loose-jointed Negro had commenced plunking a guitar beside me while I slept. His clothes were rags; his feet peeped out of his shoes. His face had on it some of the sadness of the ages. As he played, he pressed a knife on the strings of the guitar in a manner popularized by Hawaiian guitarists who used steel bars. The effect was unforgettable.