Ella Fitzgerald Quotes

It isn't where you came from; it's where you're going that counts.

Just don’t give up trying to do what you really want to do. Where there is love and inspiration, I don’t think you can go wrong.

The only thing better than singing is more singing.

It was a morning for Ella Fitzgerald. There are fine things in the world, after all. Dignity, refinement, warmth and humour, where you'd never expect to find them. Even as an old woman, an amputee in a wheelchair, Ella sang like a girl who could still be at high school, falling in love for the first time".

Won't you tell him please to put on some speed, follow my lead, oh how I need, someone to watch over me.

I have been rich, and I have been poor. Believe me baby, rich is better!

Just don't give up trying to do what you really want to do. Where there's love and inspiration, I don't think you can go wrong.

It isn't where you came frome; it's where you're going that counts.

You take romance - I’ll take Jell-O.

It really was a whole generation who were listening to Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Thelonious Monk, Ella Fitzgerald, Sonny Rollins, James Moody, Fats Navarro and, a little bit later on, Mongo Santamaría and Chuck Berry, and these dozen or so guys gave them a voice. They led the way. They wrote what a whole generation wanted to read. The time was right and they seized the day by writing about their lives. They travelled, they got into scrapes, they got arrested, they got wasted … and they wrote about it. Isn’t that something?

If words could describe one's writing, then mine would be the love child of Cole Porter and Leonard Cohen, and reading it would be like listening to Ella Fitzgerald sing.

The wind smelled like the moon. I went up there so many times in the weeks that followed that I no longer remember which night it was that God finally answered my prayer. I do not think it was right at the beginning, when I was still saying my prayers in words. I think it came later, when I had graduated to inchoate sounds. Up on that fire escape, I learned to pray the way a wolf howls. I learned to pray the way that Ella Fitzgerald sang scat.

Meghan and I talked about music - she loved Ella Fitzgerald. "What about all the hip acts that college kids love? Do you like any of them?" "Like who?" "I don't know all their names. Snoop Diggity Do and all those hip cats." Meghan shook her head and laughed. We talked about movies - she loved anything made before 1964. No wonder I thought she was older; she was an old soul in a young body. "So what's your favorite movie?" I asked. "To Kill a Mockingbird." My mother would have liked Meghan. She made my father and me watch To Kill a Mockingbird with her when I was in first grade. It must have been the twentieth time she'd seen it, but she still cried at the parts that made her weepy-eyed the first nineteen times.

We go in and sit on the sofa by the fire to dry out, and she plays her favourite records, lots of Rickie Lee Jones and Led Zeppelin and Donovan and Bob Dylan - even though she was sixteen in 1982, there's definitely something very 1971 about Alice. I watch as she jumps around the room to 'Crosstown Traffic' by Jimi Hendrix, then when she's out of breath and tired of changing records every three minutes she puts a crackly old Ella Fitzgerald LP on, and we lie on the sofa and read our books, and steal glances at each other every now and then, like that bit between Michael York and Liza Minnelli in Cabaret, and talk only when we feel like it.

—No debo preocuparme —dijo ella—. Mientras hay vida, hay esperanza. —Qué idea tan terrible

La valentía de ella, al fin y al cabo, no era otra cosa que su determinación por sobrevivir.

¿De qué me servía hacer grandes cosas si lo pasaba mejor contándole a ella lo qué haría?

No soy más que un conjunto de muchas personas diferentes, todas ellas muy sencillas.

Está bien", dije, "estoy agradecida de que sea una niña. Y espero que ella sea una tonta... eso es lo mejor que puede ser una niña en este mundo, una tontita hermosa...

-Detesto a la gente descuidada. Por eso me gustas tú. Sus ojos grises entrecerrados debido a la luz miraban hacia el frente, pero de manera deliberada ella había cambiado nuestras relaciones, y por un momento pensé que la amaba.

Give Me The Simple Life" I don't believe in frettin' and grievin' Why mess around with strife' I never was cut out to step and strut out Give me the simple life Some find it pleasant dining on pheasant Those things roll off my knife Just serve me tomatoes and mashed potatoes Give me the simple life A cottage small if all I'm after Not one that's spacious and wide A house that rings with joy and laughter And the ones you love inside Some like the high road, I like the low road Free from the care and strife Sounds corny and seedy, but yes, indeed Give me the simple life

La propia ciudad, a pesar de que ella se hubiese ido estaba impregnada de una belleza melancólica [...] Alargó la mano desesperadamente como para atrapar solo una brizna de aire, para salvar un fragmento del lugar que ella había hecho precioso para él. Pero todo pasaba demasiado deprisa ya para sus ojos empañados y supo que había perdido para siempre aquella parte que era la más pura y la mejor.

Danny’s Song” by Kenny Loggins “Reminder” by Mumford & Sons “Barton Hollow” by The Civil Wars “Like a Bridge Over Troubled Waters” by Simon and Garfunkel “I and Love and You” by The Avett Brothers “Make You Feel My Love” by Adele “Can’t Break Her Fall” by Matt Kearney  “Stillborn” by Black Label Society “Come On Get Higher” by Matt Nathanson “I Won’t Give Up” by Jason Mraz “This Girl” by City & Colour “My Funny Valentine” by Ella Fitzgerald “Dream a Little Dream of Me” by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong “Stormy Blues” by Billie Holiday “I would be Sad” by The Avett Brothers “Hello, I’m Delaware” by City & Colour “99 Problems” by Hugo (originally written and performed by Jay-Z) “It’s Time” by Imagine Dragons “Let It Be Me” by Ray LaMontagne “Rocketship” by Guster “Don’t Drink The Water” by Dave Matthews Band “Blackbird” by The Beatles

En cuanto la voz se apagó y dejó de exigirme atención y confianza, tuve conciencia de la insinceridad básica de todo lo que había dicho. Y me sentí incómodo, como sí toda la velada hubiera sido una trampa para extraer de mí una contribución sentimental. Esperé y, en efecto, al momento me miró con una espléndida sonrisa de satisfacción, como si me hubiera confesado su pertenencia a una distinguida sociedad secreta a la que tanto ella como Tom estaban afiliados.

Debió haber instantes, incluso en aquella misma tarde, en que Daisy no llegó a ser el vértice de sus sueños, y no precisamente por su culpa, sino por la colosal vitalidad de su ilusión. Había ido más allá de ella, más allá de todo. Se había entregado, con creadora pasión, acrecentándolo todo, adornándolo con toda brillante plumita que en su camino hallara. No existe fuego ni lozanía capaz de desafiar a lo que un hombre es capaz de almacenar en su fantasmal corazón.

-Si no fuera por la niebla, veríamos tu casa, al otro lado de la bahía... -dijo Gatsby-. Siempre tienen una luz verde encendida al final del muelle... Impulsivamente, Daisy pasó su brazo por debajo del de Gatsby, pero el parecía absorto en lo que acababa de decir. Acaso se le había ocurrido que el colosal significado de aquella luz desaparecía para siempre. Comparado con la enorme distancia que lo había separado de Daisy, la luz le había parecido muy cercana a ella, casi rozándola; tan cerca como puede estarlo una estrella de la luna.

Hacia mitad de camino entre West Egg y Nueva York la carretera se acerca de repente a la línea del ferrocarril y corre a su lado por espacio de unos cuatrocientos metros, como si quisiera evitar así cierta desolada extensión de tierra. Se trata de un valle de cenizas, de una granja fantástica donde las cenizas, como si fueran trigo, crecen formando crestas y colinas y jardines grotescos; donde las cenizas adoptan la forma de casas y de chimeneas y del humo que sale por ellas y, finalmente, mediante un esfuerzo trascendental, incluso de hombres que se mueven confusamente, para desmoronarse al instante en el aire polvoriento.

Where there is love and inspiration, I don’t think you can go wrong.

Asteria’s Ship’s Library Sailing Books Admiralty, NP 136, Ocean Passages of the World, 1973 (1895).  Admiralty, NP 303 / AP 3270, Rapid Sight Reduction Tables for Navigation Vol 1 & Vol 2 & Vol3. Admiralty, The Nautical Almanac 2018 & 2019. Errol Bruce: Deep Sea Sailing, 1954. K. Adlard Coles: Heavy Weather Sailing, 1967. Tom Cunliffe: Celestial Navigation, 1989. Andrew Evans: Single Handed Sailing, 2015. Rob James: Ocean Sailing, 1980. Robin Knox-Johnston: A World of my Own, 1969. Robin Knox-Johnston: On Seamanship & Seafaring, 2018. Bernard Moitessier: The Long Route, 1971. Hal Roth: Handling Storms at Sea, 2009. Spike Briggs & Campbell Mackenzie: Skipper's Medical Emergency Handbook, 2015 Essays Albert Camus: The Myth of Sisyphus & Other Essays, 1955. Biographies Pamela Eriksson: The Duchess, 1958. Olaf Harken: Fun Times in Boats, Blocks & Business, 2015. Martti Häikiö: VA Koskenniemi 1–2, 2009. Eino Koivistoinen: Gustaf Erikson – King of Sailing Ships, 1981. Erik Tawaststjerna: Jean Sibelius 1–5, 1989. Novels Ingmar Bergman: The Best Intentions, 1991. Bo Carpelan: Axel, 1986. Joseph Conrad: The End of the Tether, 1902. Joseph Conrad: Youth and Other Stories 1898–1910.  Joseph Conrad: Heart of Darkness, 1902. Joseph Conrad: Lord Jim, 1900. James Joyce: Ulysses, 1922, (translation Pentti Saarikoski 1982). Volter Kilpi: In the Alastalo Hall I – II, 1933. Thomas Mann: Buddenbrooks, 1925. Harry Martinson: The Road, 1948. Hjalmar Nortamo: Collected Works, 1938. Marcel Proust: In Search of Lost Time 1–10, 1922. Poems Aaro Hellaakoski: Collected Poems. Homer: Odysseus, c. 700 BC (translation Otto Manninen). Harry Martinson: Aniara, 1956. Lauri Viita: Collected Poems. Music Classic Jean Sibelius Sergei Rachmaninov Sergei Prokofiev Gustav Mahler Franz Schubert Giuseppe Verdi Mozart Carl Orff Richard Strauss Edvard Grieg Max Bruch Jazz Ben Webster Thelonius Monk Oscar Peterson Miles Davis Keith Jarrett Errol Garner Dizzy Gillespie & Benny Dave Brubeck Stan Getz Charlie Parker Ella Fitzgerald John Coltrane Other Ibrahim Ferrer, Buena Vista Social Club Jobim & Gilberto, Eric Clapton Carlos Santana Bob Dylan John Lennon Beatles Sting Rolling Stones Dire Straits Mark Knopfler Moody Blues Pink Floyd Jim Morrison The Doors Procol Harum Leonard Cohen Led Zeppelin Kim Carnes Jacques Brel Yves Montand Edit Piaf

I like singers like Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald.

February 15: Inez Melson, Marilyn’s business manager, writes a memo about her conversation with Jo Brooks regarding Marilyn’s offer to host a party for Ella Fitzgerald, but Fitzgerald’s opening occurs when Marilyn is out of town, and Marilyn is not able to host the party.

They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.” –F. Scott Fitzgerald

Igual que seguía considerando que la gravedad es una fuerza que atrae las cosas hacia sí, y no una simple cuestión que se encarga de las que menos resistencia opongan a ella, estaba segura de que el carácter era una lucha entre las buenas y las malas intenciones.

El género humano tiene algo uniforme. La mayoría dedica la mayor parte del tiempo a vivir y la pizca de libertad que le resta le provoca tanto temor que procura librarse de ella por todos los medios.

Speaking of the great jazz singer Ella Fitzgerald– Here was a Black woman popularizing urban songs often written by immigrant Jews to a national audience of predominantly white Christians.

The November Road Playlist “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right”—Bob Dylan “’Round Midnight”—Billy Taylor Trio “Will You Love Me Tomorrow?”—The Shirelles “Follow the Yellow Brick Road” from The Wizard of Oz—Judy Garland “How Can You Lose”—Art Pepper “Night and Day”—Ella Fitzgerald “I Saw Her Standing There”—The Beatles “Jack O’Diamonds”—Ruth Brown “Ring of Fire”—Johnny Cash “Somebody Have Mercy”—Sam Cooke “Something Cool”—June Christy “Prisoner of Love”—James Brown “It’s My Party”—Lesley Gore “Blowin’ in the Wind”—Peter, Paul and Mary “I’m Walkin’”—Fats Domino “You’re Getting to Be a Habit with Me”—Frank Sinatra “’Round Midnight”—Thelonious Monk

Into each life some rain must fall.

You may be wondering: Could Ella Fitzgerald explode your liver? She could not.

It isn’t where you come from, it’s where you’re going that counts.

todo eso en una música que espanta a los cogotes de platea, a los que creen que nada es de verdad si no hay programas impresos y acomodadores, y así va el mundo y el jazz es como un pájaro que migra o emigra o inmigra o transmigra, saltabarreras, burlaaduanas, algo que corre y se difunde y esta noche en Viena está cantando Ella Fitzgerald mientras en París Kenny Clarke inaugura una cave y en Perpignan brincan los dedos de Oscar Peterson, y Satchmo por todas partes con el don de ubicuidad que le ha prestado el Señor, en Birmingham, en Varsovia, en Milán, en Buenos Aires, en Ginebra, en el mundo entero, es inevitable, es la lluvia y el pan y la sal, algo absolutamente indiferente a los ritos nacionales, a las tradiciones inviolables, al idioma y al folklore: una nube sin fronteras, un espía del aire y del agua, una forma arquetípica, algo de antes, de abajo, que reconcilia mexicanos con noruegos y rusos y españoles, los reincorpora al oscuro fuego central olvidado, torpe y mal y precariamente los devuelve a un origen traicionado, les señala que quizá había otros caminos y que el que tomaron no era el único y no era el mejor, o que quizá había otros caminos y que el que tomaron era el mejor, pero que quizá había otros caminos dulces de caminar y que no los tomaron, o los tomaron a medias, y que un hombre es siempre más que un hombre y siempre menos que un hombre, más que un hombre porque encierra eso que el jazz alude y soslaya y hasta anticipa, y menos que un hombre porque de esa libertad ha hecho un juego estético o moral, un tablero de ajedrez donde se reserva ser el alfil o el caballo, una definición de libertad que se enseña en las escuelas, precisamente en las escuelas donde jamás se ha enseñado y jamás se enseñará a los niños el primer compás de un ragtime y la primera frase de un blues, etcétera, etcétera.

Overtown remained the center of black life in Miami until the arrival of I-95, the vast stretch of American highway that ran from Maine down the East Coast all the way to Miami. It stomped right through the middle of Miami’s most prominent black neighborhood in 1965, a ravenous millipede with a thousand concrete legs. Had the 3,000-kilometer highway been halted just 5 kilometers to the north, black Miami might have had a different history. Instead the highway, touted as “slum clearance,” bulldozed through black Miami’s main drags. Gone was much of Overtown’s commercial heart, with its three movie theaters, its public pool, grocery store, and businesses. Goodbye to clubs that had hosted Ella Fitzgerald, to the Sir John Hotel, which had offered their finest suites to black entertainers banned from staying in whites-only Miami Beach. But more important, goodbye to a neighborhood where parents knew which house every child belonged to.

Blue skies Smiling at me Nothing but blue skies Do I see Bluebirds Singing a song Nothing but bluebirds All day long Never saw the sun shining so bright Never saw things going so right Noticing the days hurrying by When you're in love, my how they fly Blue days All of them gone Nothing but blue skies From now on I never saw the sun shining so bright Never saw things going oh-so right Noticing the days hurrying by When you're in love, my how they fly Blue days All of them gone Nothing but blue skies From now on Songwriter: Irving Berlin

Just don’t give up trying to do what you really want to do. Where there’s love and inspiration, I don’t think you can go wrong. Ella Fitzgerald