Frankie Presto Quotes

All humans are musical. Why else would the Lord give you a beating heart?

Everyone joins a band in this life. And what you play always affects someone. Sometimes, it affects the world.

The secret is not to make your music louder, but to make the world quieter.

This is life. Things get taken away. You will learn to start over many times -- or you will be useless.

You cannot write if you do not read,” the blind man said. “You cannot eat if you do not chew. And you cannot play if you do not”—he grabbed for the boy’s hand—“listen.

Sometimes I think the greatest talent of all is perseverance.

But you cannot change your past, no matter how you craft your future.

There is a reason you glance up when you first hear a melody, or tap your foot to the sound of a drum. All humans are musical. Why else would the Lord give you a beating heart?

You cannot ask things to do what they are not meant to do. Eventually, they will break.

Every loss leaves a hole in your heart.

You cannot unplay your notes. Time, like music, is indelible that way.

Truth is light. Lies are shadows. Music is both.

As life goes on, you will join other bands, some through friendship, some through romance, some through neighborhoods, school, an army. Maybe you will all dress the same, or laugh at your own private vocabulary. Maybe you will flop on couches backstage, or share a boardroom table, or crowd around a galley inside a ship. But in each band you join, you will play a distinct part, and it will affect you as much as you affect it.

There are moments on earth when the Lord smiles at the unexpected sweetness of His creation.

At a certain point, your life is more about your legacy to your kids than anything else.

You’re never in love with anyone the way you are when you’re eighteen,

Music is in the connection of human souls, speaking a language that needs no words. Everyone joins a band in this life. And what you play always affects someone. Sometimes, it affects the world. Frankie’s

That is often why you come to music, isn't it? To feel that you are not alone?

In every artist’s life, there comes a person who lifts the curtain on creativity. It is the closest you come to seeing me again. The first time, when you emerge from the womb, I am a brilliant color in the rainbow of human talents from which you choose. Later, when a special someone lifts the curtain, you feel that chosen talent stirring inside you, a bursting passion to sing, paint, dance, bang on drums. And you are never the same.

You humans are always locking each other away. Cells. Dungeons. Some of your earliest jails were sewers, where men sloshed in their own waste. No other creature has this arrogance—to confine its own. Could you imagine a bird imprisoning another bird? A horse jailing a horse? As a free form of expression, I will never understand it. I can only say that some of my saddest sounds have been heard in such places. A song inside a cage is never a song. It is a plea.

A teacher’s shadow can hover for life.

Talent is a piece of God's shadow. And under that shadow, human stories intersect.

Inside all humans is the entirety of your memories, the ones you can access and the ones you cannot.

What would you give to remember everything? I have this power. I absorb your memories; when you hear me, you relive them. A first dance. A wedding. The song that played when you got the big news. No other talent gives your

Do not cry for losing blood. Not for something you love.

I have said that music allows for quick creation. But it is nothing compared with what you humans can destroy in a single conversation.

Don't be sorry. You're alive.

Man searches for courage in drink, but it is not courage that he finds, it is fear that he loses. A drunken man may step off a cliff. That does not make him brave, just forgetful.

The greatest thing, you’ll ever learn Is just to love, and be loved in return.

Remember this, Francisco,” he said. “The secret is not to make your music louder, but to make the world quieter.

some things you endure for a reason

Silence enhances music. What you do not play can sweeten what you do. But it is not the same with words. What you do not say can haunt you.

intentions. That’s important in music, too. Critically important. What you’re thinking about can be what you become.

Why humans kill each other is beyond my comprehension, but I can testify that you have been doing it since your inception. Only the weapons change.

You will never know all there is to know. You will learn until your final days. Then you will inspire someone else. This is what an artist does.

Do not cry over losing blood. Not for something you love.

You’re never in love with anyone the way you are when you’re eighteen, on a beach, at night, with your shoes off. I still can’t believe he’s gone.

One must indeed test the strings to this life, bounce the bow, wet the mouthpiece, prepare for the deeper music that follows.

Sunflowers waiting for the sunshine. Violets just waiting for dew. Bees just waiting for honey And honey, I’m just waiting for you!

I [Music] was born in the open air, in the breaks of waves and the whistling of sandstorms, the hoots of owls and the cackles of tui birds. I travel in echoes. I ride the breeze. I was forged in nature, rugged and raw. Only man shapes my edges to make me beautiful. [Chapter 2]

Music is in the connection of human souls, speaking a language that needs no words.

Over time, I guess all your teachers find their way into your music, right?

For centuries, musicians have sought to find me at the end of a needle or the bottom of a drink. It is an illusion. And it often ends badly. Take

Everyone joins a band in this life. One way or another, the band breaks up.

EVERYONE JOINS A BAND IN THIS LIFE. You are born into your first one. Your mother plays the lead. She shares the stage with your father and siblings. Or perhaps your father is absent, an empty stool under a spotlight. But he is still a founding member, and if he surfaces one day, you will have to make room for him. As life goes on, you will join other bands, some through friendship, some through romance, some through neighborhoods, school, an army. Maybe you will all dress the same, or laugh at your own private vocabulary. Maybe you will flop on couches backstage, or share a boardroom table, or crowd around a galley inside a ship. But in each band you join, you will play a distinct part, and it will affect you as much as you affect it. And, as is usually the fate with bands, most of them will break up—through distance, differences, divorce, or death.

But daughters have their own lives. You can’t smother them. She’ll get married. Have children.

I am not one of the “slower” talents, like Reason or Mathematics. I am Music. If I bless you singing, you can do so from your first attempt.

All lonely roads lead back to music. I embrace you. I forgive you. I will never leave you.

There are songs that you play that you have to restart, and songs that you play that you never get right. But when a song is complete, there is no more you can do.

I know this sound; silence is part of music. But just because something is silent doesn’t mean you aren’t hearing it.

And, as is usually the fate with bands, most of them will break up—through distance, differences, divorce, or death.

You humans are always locking each other away. Cells. Dungeons. Some of your earliest jails were sewers, where men sloshed in their own waste. No other creature has this arrogance—to confine its own. Could you imagine a bird imprisoning another bird? A horse jailing a horse?

What you’re thinking about can be what you become.

Everyone joins a band in this life. And what you play always affects someone. Sometimes, it affects the world. Frankie’s symphony ends. And so, at last, we rest.

One must indeed test the strings in this life, bounce the bow, wet the mouthpiece, prepare for the deeper music that follows.

You will never know all there is to know. You will learn until your final days.

You should never construct a lie based on a child’s questions. It is like writing music based on cymbal crashes.

will share a secret: this is how talents are bestowed. Before newborns open their eyes, we circle them, appearing as brilliant colors, and when they clench their tiny hands for the first time, they are actually grabbing the colors they find most appealing. Those talents are with them for life. The lucky ones (well, in my opinion, the lucky ones) choose me. Music.

This is how talents weave from generation to generation, how the shadow stretches, and how an artist born nearly a hundred years earlier begins to fill the soul of a child who shares his name.

What would you give to remember everything? I have this power. I absorb your memories; when you hear me, you relive them. A first dance. A wedding. The song that played when you got the big news. No other talent gives your life a soundtrack. I am Music. I mark time.

I am Music. And I am here for the soul of Frankie Presto. Not all of it. Just the rather large part he took from me when he came into this world. However well used, I am a loan, not a possession. You give me back upon departure. I will gather up Frankie’s talent to spread on newborn souls. And I will do the same with yours one day. There is a reason you glance up when you first hear a melody, or tap your foot to the sound of a drum. All humans are musical. Why else would the Lord give you a beating heart?

Man suffers for his art.

The less humans can solve a mystery, the more interesting it becomes

Her dresses. Her shoes. A bottle of her perfume. You don’t need much to remember someone, Francisco. Even one thing will do.

Lágrima”—“Teardrop”—the

But everyone joins a band in this life. Only some of them play music.

Public taste is as fickle as a child’s attention span

Luke the Drifter: Play me the saddest song you got. Frankie Presto: Why do you want to hear a sad song? Luke the Drifter: They’re more true than the happy ones

It is not just humans who are musical. Animals, too. This should be obvious in the thousands of birdsongs I have spawned, or the clicking of dolphins, or the moaning of humpback whales.

Here is what I know of love. It changes the way you treat me. I feel it in your hands. Your fingers. Your compositions. The sudden rush of peppy phrases, major sevenths, melody lines that resolve neatly and sweetly, like a valentine tucked in an envelope. Humans grow dizzy from new affection, and young Frankie was already dizzy when he and the mysterious girl descended from that tree.

Before newborns open their eyes, we circle them, appearing as brilliant colors, and when they clench their tiny hands for the first time, they are actually grabbing the colors they find most appealing.

Suddenly it was terribly quiet, as if the earth itself were too stunned to breathe. I know this sound; silence is part of music. But just because something is silent doesn’t mean you aren’t hearing it. Frankie

Catholic ritual of Sancta Missa: “ ‘Come in haste to assist them, you saints of God. Come in haste to meet them, you angels of the Lord. Enfold in your arms these souls, and take your burden heavenward to the most high.

I am Music. And I am here for the soul of Frankie Presto. Not all of it. Just the rather large part he took from me when he came into this world. However well used, I am a loan, not a possession. You give me back upon departure. I

One of my disciples, a lanky saxophonist named Sonny Rollins, played his horn for three years on a bridge in New York City, his tender jazz melodies wafting between the traffic noises. I would pause there often, on the girders, just to listen. Or

You are born into your first one. Your mother plays the lead. She shares the stage with your father and siblings. Or perhaps your father is absent, an empty stool under a spotlight. But he is still a founding member, and if he surfaces one day, you will have to make room for him.

Here is what I know of love. It changes the way you treat me. I feel it in your hands. Your fingers. Your compositions. The sudden rush of peppy phrases, major sevenths, melody lines that resolve neatly and sweetly, like a valentine tucked in an envelope. Humans grow dizzy from new affection,

Why do the strings make different sounds, Maestro?” “It is simple. They work like life.” “I don’t understand.” “The first string is E. It is high pitched and quick like a child. “The second string is B. It is pitched slightly lower, like the squeaky voice of a teenager. “The third string, G, is deeper, with the power of a young man. “The fourth string, D, is robust, a man at full strength. “The fifth string, A, is solid and loud but unable to reach high tones, like a man who can no longer do what he did.” “And the sixth string, Maestro?” “The sixth is the low E, the thickest, slowest, and grumpiest. You hear how deep? Dum-dum-dum. Like it is ready to die.” “Is that because it is closest to heaven?” “No, Francisco. It is because life will always drag you to the bottom.” Frankie

He died at forty-two. I was there to collect his talent. I was there at the hospital deathbed of my beloved Billie Holiday, just forty-four, her liver destroyed by drinking; I was there inside the hotel room of Charlie Parker, my singular jazz saxophonist, who died in his midthirties, but whose body was so ravaged by drugs the coroners thought he was sixty. Tommy Dorsey, the bandleader, choked in his sleep when he was fifty-one, too deep in pills to awaken. Johnny Allen Hendrix (you called him Jimi) swallowed a handful of barbiturates and expired. He was twenty-seven. It is not new, this idea that a purer art awaits you in a substance. But it is naive. I existed before the first grapes were fermented. Before the first whiskey was distilled. Be it opium or absinthe, marijuana or heroin, cocaine or ecstasy or whatever will follow, you may alter your state, but you will not alter this truth: I am Music. I am here inside you. Why would I hide behind a powder or a vapor? Do you think me so petty?

He found himself thinking about his childhood. "Why do you drink so much, Maestro?" "This is not a music question." "Are you sad, Maestro?" "Again, not a music question." "I am sad sometimes, Maestro." "Practice more. Speak less. You'll be happier." "Yes, Maestro." Everyone joins a band in this life. Sometimes, they are the wrong ones.

Loneliness was like an ogre hovering over those activities

And you will be scared again. All your life. You must conquer this. Face them and pretend that aren't there

wearing a scarf and gloves, her blond hair tucked under a hat. “Are you done with that actress?

Francisco Presto: How do you know you are in love, Maestro? El Maestro: If you are asking, you are not.

Music tells the truths

He wondered why God was always mentioned in the most unusual moments of his life.

Animals not only make music, they hear it in unique fashion.

Monsieur Django, I presume?” Duke Ellington said, offering his hand. “Monsieur

He was switching between classical riffs and the jazz tune, “Body and Soul.

Barely pausing between songs, he played American compositions like “St. Louis Blues” and “Tiger Rag.” He played “Parfum” from the gypsy legend Django Reinhardt. He

There are moments on earth when the Lord smiles at the unexpected sweetness of His creation. This was one of those moments.

Memories are not in places, Papa. Memories are in your mind. They're here, too.

For my disciples, the map is simple. All lonely roads lead back to music. I embrace you. I forgive you. I will never leave you. Can humans say the same?

Dizzy Gillespie, the jazz trumpet player, once said, “It’s taken me all my life to learn what not to play.” He was one of my special ones. And he was quite correct. Silence enhances music. What you do not play can sweeten what you do. But

But all love stories are symphonies. And, like symphonies, they have four movements: • Allegro, a quick and spirited opening • Adagio, a slow turn • Minuet/Scherzo short steps in ¾ time • Rondo, a repeating theme, interrupted by various passages

will share a secret: this is how talents are bestowed. Before newborns open their eyes, we circle them, appearing as brilliant colors, and when they clench their tiny hands for the first time, they are actually grabbing the colors they find most appealing. Those talents are with them for life. The lucky ones (well, in my opinion, the lucky ones) choose me. Music. From that point on, I live inside your every hum and whistle, every pluck of a string or plink of a piano key. I cannot keep you alive. I lack such power. But I infuse you. And

That’s the way it worked between the two of them. Long periods of absence—then crazy, intense romance. I do believe she and Frankie belonged together, even if they rarely stayed together. It was as if they had a secret they were bound to, which made them joyful most of the time and insane the rest.

You humans are always locking each other away. Cells. Dungeons. Some of your earliest jails were sewers, where men sloshed in their own waste. No other creature has this arrogance—to confine its own. Could you imagine a bird imprisoning another bird? A horse jailing a horse? As a free form of expression, I will never understand it.

The rain rapped the roof like mallets. The thunder was a tympani drum. Downstairs the raiders set fire to the refectory and the flames crackled like a hundred castanets. Those few who had not fled the church were screaming, high, pleading shrieks, met by lower barking orders of those committing the atrocities. The low and high voices, the crackling fire, whipping wind, drumming rain and crashing thunder created an angry symphony, swirling to a crescendo, and just as the invaders threw open the tomb of Saint Pascual, ready to desecrate his bones, the bells above the basilica began to chime, causing all to look up. At that precise moment, Frankie Presto was born.

El Maestro: Do not attack the strings, Francisco. Francisco Presto: No, Maestro. El Maestro: Coax them. Francisco Presto: Yes, Maestro. El Maestro: Make them hunger for your next note. Same as in life. Francisco Presto: In life, Maestro? El Maestro: When you want someone to listen to you, will you attack them? Francisco Presto: No, Maestro. El Maestro: No, you will not. you will make them hear the beauty of what you are offering, and they will want it for themselves.