Singing Voice Quotes

“Chris was in the rocker, fully clothed, and was strumming idly on
Cory's guitar. "Dance, ballerina, dance," he softly chanted, and his
singing voice wasn't bad at all. Maybe we could work as musicians---a
trio -if Carrie ever recovered enough to want a voice again.”
― V.C. Andrews, Flowers in the Attic

“Had she been an old woman who long ago in her youth sang beautifully, one might have said that she had learned to use the diminished nature of her voice to maximum effect, that it was a lesson in how to live with damage, how to make peace with it and use it for what it can do. But she was not an old woman.”
― Charles Frazier, Cold Mountain

“She sang.
Wordless hymns of the sea: immediate, extemporized passages about waves and sunlight and tides and the constant, beautiful pressure of water on everything. The glory of seaweed slowly swaying, the delicious feeling that foretold a storm in the Dry World and turbulence below.
The music came out of her without pause, driven by years of observing, seeing, listening, enjoying, experiencing the world and unable to express it. The wonder and sadness of being alive. The joy of being a mermaid; the pain of being the only one like herself- the only mermaid who had been mortal, temporarily, and then lost everything.”
― Liz Braswell, Part of Your World

“Music gives strength to the soul.”
― Lailah Gifty Akita

“She had the voice of the gods, some had said. The sort of voice that could lure landlubbers to sea and sailors to their deaths, a voice that could launch a thousand ships. She had the voice of the wind and the storm and the crash of the waves and the ancient speech of the whale. She had the voice of the moon as it glided serenely across the sky and the stars as they danced behind. She had the voice of the wind between the stars that mortals never heard, that rushed and blew and ushered in the beginning and end of time.”
― Liz Braswell, Part of Your World

“A faint singing seemed to issue from the walls... yes, it was as though the walls themselves were singing!... The song became plainer... the words were now distinguishable... he heard a voice, a very beautiful, very soft, very captivating voice... but, for all its softness, it remained a male voice... The voice came nearer and nearer... it came through the wall... it approached... and now the voice was in the room, in front of Christine. Christine rose and addressed the voice, as though speaking to some one:
"Here I am, Erik," she said. "I am ready. But you are late."
Raoul, peeping from behind the curtain, could not believe his eyes, which showed him nothing. Christine's face lit up. A smile of happiness appeared upon her bloodless lips, a smile like that of sick people when they receive the first hope of recovery.
The voice without a body went on singing; and certainly Raoul had never in his life heard anything more absolutely and heroically sweet, more gloriously insidious, more delicate, more powerful, in short, irresistibly triumphant. He listened to it in a fever and he now began to understand how Christine Daaé was able to appear one evening, before the stupefied audience, with accents of a beauty hitherto unknown, of a superhuman exaltation, while doubtless still under the influence of the mysterious and invisible master.
The voice was singing the Wedding-night Song from Romeo and Juliet. Raoul saw Christine stretch out her arms to the voice as she had done, in Perros church-yard, to the invisible violin playing The Resurrection of Lazarus and nothing could describe the passion with which the voice sang:

"Fate links thee to me for ever and a day!"

The strains went through Raoul's heart.”
― Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera

“Her voice had been such an important part of her life before. The merfolk celebrated her for it. Her father excused her occasionally questionable behavior because of it. Eric loved the girl who rescued him, because of her singing...
But...
... she'd never really enjoyed singing for anyone else. In fact, she hated audiences. She sang because she liked to sing. She just... felt... something, and had to sing it. If she were happy, or sad, or angry... she would go off by herself and sing to the coral, sing to the seaweed, sing to an audience of sea snails or tube worms (who listened, but never commented). Most of her mergirlhood had been spent swimming around, exploring, singing to herself. Making up little stories in her head and then putting them into song.”
― Liz Braswell, Part of Your World

“The nightingale waits for a song to go along,Ily sang.
It was a bittersweet aria, whose story Ilaria had mastered sharing with not only her voice, but also with the expressions on her face, the movements of her arms, and the carefully choreographed blocking she performed as she crossed one side of the room to the other. Yet tonight, something was off. Her tone carried more melancholy than usual, and the tempo she led was a beat slower than when they'd practiced. Chia doubted anyone would notice. Ily's pride was in her coloratura, and every moment was still magnificent---each note in the impressive cascades attacked with vim and beauty---as if she were truly a bird chirping. But behind the technical difficulties of the piece, Ily managed to slow her musicality and bring emotion to her voice; that was what cast a spell over everyone who listened.”
― Elizabeth Lim, When You Wish Upon a Star