Hamilton Musical Quotes

[BURR] I am the one thing in life I can control.

Death doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints, it takes and it takes and it takes, and we keep living anyway....

[HAMILTON] I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory

Look around, look around at how lucky we are to be alive right now.

I know my sister like I know my own mind, you will never find anyone as trusting or as kind.

Why do you write like you're running out of time?

Legacy. What is a Legacy? It's planting seeds in a garden you never get to see

[WASHINGTON] It’s alright, you want to fight, you’ve got a hunger I was just like you when I was younger Head full of fantasies of dyin’ like a martyr? [HAMILTON] Yes [WASHINGTON] Dying is easy, young man. Living is harder

Legacy. What is a legacy? It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see.

Immigrants, we get the job done. (Acknowlegments)

Life doesn't discriminate Between the sinners and the saints It takes and it takes and it takes And we keep living anyway We rise and we fall and we break And we make our mistakes

I am the one thing in life I can control. I am inimitable. I am an original

Lin beamed, and threw a couple of triumphant middle fingers in the air.

Talk less. Smile more. Don't let them know what you're against or what you're for.

My wife's the reason anything gets done, she nudges me towards promise by degrees. She is a perfect symphony of one our son is her most beautiful reprise. We chase the melodies that seem to find us until they're finished songs and start to play. When senseless acts of tragedy remind us that nothing here is promised--not one day. This show is proof that history remembers. We live in times when hate and fear seem stronger. We rise and fall and light from dying embers--remembrances that hope and love last longer. And love is love is love is love is love is love is love is love cannot be killed or swept aside. I sing Vanessa's symphony. Eliza tells her story. Now, fill the world with music, love, and pride.

When Lin optioned his book, Ron was relieved that the Founding Father who had the most dramatic and least appreciated life story would finally get his due—even though a rap musical was the last way that Ron had anticipated Hamilton getting it.

(Questlove) Is this the most revolutionary thing to happen to Broadway, or the most revolutionary thing to happen to hip-hop?

Southern motherfucking democratic-republicans

The plan is to fan this spark into a flame

I think Lafayette wants to rap in French now. I have to go learn some French. Damn it, Lafayette

It wasn't his touch that was making my insides feel strange. It was the look in his eyes. Passion. Passion for me. Passion for this moment. Passion for his music. Passion for life. Just passion. It was as if Kyle Hamilton's entire being was made of passion, and he was sending that passion straight into me.

Ron told Pippa that during the six years he had spent on the book, Valerie Chernow had developed a powerful identification with Hamilton’s wife. “She used to say, ‘Eliza is like me: She’s good, she’s true, she’s loyal, she’s not ambitious.’ There was a purity and a goodness about the character, and that was like Valerie,” he says. In 2006, after 27 years of marriage, Valerie passed away. For her gravestone, Ron chose a line from the letter that Hamilton wrote to Eliza on the night before the duel: “Best of wives and best of women.

And love is love is love is love is love is love is love is love, cannot be killed or swept aside, Now fill the world with music, love, and pride.

The chef who cooks without a song on his lips cannot hope to infuse the right carefree improvisatory note into his art.

Congratulations. You have invented a new kind of stupid. A 'damage you can never undo' kind of stupid. An 'open all the cages in the zoo' kind of stupid. 'Truly, you didn't think this through?' kind of stupid.

Alexander Hamilton’s too much. He’s very extra a lot of the time.

All history should be taught through rap by Lin-Manuel Miranda

I will send a fully armed battalion to remind you of my love.

PAY YOUR FUCKING TAXES

If you stand for nothing, Burr, what'll you fall for?

I will kill your friends and family to remind you of my love.

Write like you're running out of time...

Music can be a powerful adjunct to the healing process. And music is one of the safest medicines you'll ever find. You can dose yourself as you please with no worries about toxic side effects.

John Jay got sick after writing five. James Madison wrote twenty-nine. Hamilton wrote the other fifty-one!

Of course I know what she means. To make art in fandom is to follow your passion at the risk of never being taken seriously. I've written dozens of fics-put them together and you'd have several novels-but who knows what a college admissions officer will think of that as a pastime. Where does 12,000 Tumbler followers rate in relation to a spot in the National Honor Society in their minds? Every week I get anonymous messages in my inbox telling me I should write a real book. Well, haven't I already? What makes what I do different from "real writing"? Is it that I don't use original characters? I guess that makes every Hardy Boys edition, every Star Wars book, every spinoff, sequel, fairy-tale re-telling, historical romance, comic book reboot, and the music Hamilton "not real writing". Or is it that a real book is something printed, that you can hold in your hand, not something you write on the internet? Or is "real writing" something you sell in a store, not give away for free? No, I know it's none of these things. It's merely this: "real writing" is done by serious people, whereas fanfiction is written by weirdos, teenagers, degenerates, and women.

Thomas Jefferson helped the Marquis de Lafayette draft a declaration," Simon blurts. "Mr. Spier, memorizing the Hamilton soundtrack is not going to save you on the AP Euro exam.

Raise a glass to freedom something they can never take away, no matter what they tell you.

One reason people find baroque music soothing is that its inherent rhythm of sixty-four to sixty-eight beats per minute is similar to that of a calm, relaxed heart.

The comparison might strike you as farfetched. What (you might be asking) can a Broadway musical possibly add to the legacy of a Founding Father--a giant of our national life, a war hero, a scholar, a statesman? What's one little play, or even one very big play, next to all that? But there is more than one way to change the world . To secure their freedom, the polyglot American colonists had to come together, and stick together, in the face of enormous adversity. To live in a new way, they first had to think and feel in a new way. It took guns and ships to win the American Revolution, but it also required pamphlets and speeches--and at least one play.

I would not want to live in a universe where good could not ultimately triumph over evil. Or where there was no music. I simply cannot imagine a world without music. It's been said "music is the language of the human soul." Music enlivens us. It injects emotional color. It can lend its energy to help you get better.

Because if someone is determined to do something evil there’s really no stopping them. It’s not the music they listen to, in the television or movies they watch, or video games they play, or even the books they read.

I don't know how to describe the feeling. It did not exist one moment and then there it was, coursing through my head: "Death doesn't discriminate..." [...] Music doesn't discriminate when it arrives either. It'll get you on the A train if you're open to it.

Plus, I needed a jolt. I stayed up all night listening to Hamilton.” “Okay?” I don’t mean for it to sound like a question. “The Tony Award–winning musical,” she says. “You know it, right?” I shake my head. “I’m not into music.” “You should listen to it. Life-changing!

death doesn´t discriminate between the sinners and the saints, it takes and it takes and it takes and we keep livin´ anyway we laugh and we cry and we break and make our mistakes but if theres a reason im still alive when everyone who loves me has died im willing to wait for it

That music could have crumbled proud belief With doubt, or in the bosom of the sage Madden the heart that had outmastered grief, And flood with tears the eyes of frozen age And turn the young man's feet to pilgrimage - So sharp it was, so sure a path it found, Soulward with stabbing wounds of bitter sound. - Dymer, Canto I, v. 24

Gentlemen and ladies- in green, yellow, pink- arriving on the terrace, sweeping down the stone stairs onto the lawn. Jazz music floating on the air; Chinese lanterns flickering in the breeze; Mr. Hamilton's hired waiters balancing huge silver trays of sparkling champagne flutes on raised hands, weaving through the growing crowds; Emmeline, shimmering in pink, leading a laughing fellow to the dance floor to perform the Shimmy shake.

Hamlet' dwarfs 'Hamilton' - it dwarfs pretty much everything - but there's a revealing similarity between them. Shakespeare's longest play leaves its audience in the dark about some basic and seemingly crucial facts. It's not as if the Bard forgot, in the course of all those words, to tell us whether Hamlet was crazy or only pretending: He wanted us to wonder. He forces us to work on a puzzle that has no definite answer. And this mysteriousness is one reason why we find the play irresistible. 'Hamilton' is riddled with question marks. The first act begins with a question, and so does the second. The entire relationship between Hamilton and Burr is based on a mutual and explicit lack of comprehension: 'I will never understand you,' says Hamilton, and Burr wonders, 'What it is like in his shoes?' Again and again, Lin distinguishes characters by what they wish they knew. 'What'd I miss?' asks Jefferson in the song that introduces him. 'Would that be enough?' asks Eliza in the song that defines her. 'Why do you write like you're running out of time?' asks everybody in a song that marvels at Hamilton's drive, and all but declares that there's no way to explain it. 'Hamilton', like 'Hamlet', gives an audience the chance to watch a bunch of conspicuously intelligent and well-spoken characters fill the stage with 'words, words, words,' only to discover, again and again, the limits to what they can comprehend.

She’d been so enthralled with Hamilton’s story that, after seeing the musical in London, she went on an audiobook spree starting with the Ron Chernow book that inspired the musical, followed by Jon Meacham’s Thomas Jefferson: The Art of Power, James Thomas Flexner’s Washington: The Indispensable Man, David McCullough’s John Adams, Walter Stahr’s John Jay: Founding Father, Paul Staiti’s Of Arms and Artists: The American Revolution through Painters’ Eyes, and finished with Walter Isaacson’s Benjamin Franklin: An American Life.

That takes such active, intelligent creativity, analyzing the emotions a composer intends in those scratchy notes on a page, learning and perfecting the technique that gives you the skill to bring those skeletal notations to full-fleshed life in your performance. As far as I am concerned, Eliza, that is the greatest act of intelligence a human being is capable of. Music is air made rapturous, achieving the sublime, catching the harmony of the spheres for a fleeting moment so we can hear it. It is the closest we get to God. So, therefore, it is pure brilliance of the soul.

held on to Edward’s hand, gave him some of the best eye contact I’d given anyone in a while, and Dr. Fields tried to stitch me up ahead of my body’s healing. Even with the ardeur days from being fed I was healing too fast for normal medical help. Fuck. Edward talked low to me. He whispered about the case, tried to get me to think about work. It worked for a while, and then the painkiller was all gone and I was still being stitched up. I couldn’t think about work. He talked about his family, about what Donna was doing with her metaphysical shop, about Peter in school and in martial arts. He was working on his second black belt. Becca and her musical theater, and the fact that he was still taking her to dance class twice a week, that amused me enough for me to say, “I want to see you sitting with all the suburban moms in the waiting area.

Cairo: the future city, the new metropole of plants cascading from solar-paneled roofs to tree-lined avenues with white washed facades abut careful restorations and integrated innovations all shining together in a chorus of new and old. Civil initiatives will soon find easy housing in the abandoned architectural prizes of Downtown, the river will be flooded with public transportation, the shaded spaces underneath bridges and flyovers will flower into common land connected by tramways to dignified schools and clean hospitals and eclectic bookshops and public parks humming with music in the evenings. The revolution has begun and people, every day, are supplanting the regime with their energy and initiative in this cement super colony that for decades of state failure has held itself together with a collective supraintelligence keeping it from collapse. Something here, in Cairo's combination of permanence and piety and proximity, bound people together.

The Greeks were the first people in the world to play, and they played on a great scale. All over Greece there were games, all sorts of games; athletic contests of every description: races—horse-, boat-, foot-, torch-races; contests in music, where one side out-sung the other; in dancing—on greased skins sometimes to display a nice skill of foot and balance of body; games where men leaped in and out of flying chariots; games so many one grows weary with the list of them. They are embodied in the statues familiar to all, the disc thrower, the charioteer, the wrestling boys, the dancing flute players. The great games—there were four that came at stated seasons—were so important, when one was held, a truce of God was proclaimed so that all Greece might come in safety without fear. There “glorious-limbed youth”—the phrase is Pindar’s, the athlete’s poet—strove for an honor so coveted as hardly anything else in Greece. An Olympic victor—triumphing generals would give place to him. His crown of wild olives was set beside the prize of the tragedian. Splendor attended him, processions, sacrifices, banquets, songs the greatest poets were glad to write. Thucydides, the brief, the severe, the historian of that bitter time, the fall of Athens, pauses, when one of his personages has conquered in the games, to give the fact full place of honor. If we had no other knowledge of what the Greeks were like, if nothing were left of Greek art and literature, the fact that they were in love with play and played magnificently would be proof enough of how they lived and how they looked at life. Wretched people, toiling people, do not play. Nothing like the Greek games is conceivable in Egypt or Mesopotamia. The life of the Egyptian lies spread out in the mural paintings down to the minutest detail. If fun and sport had played any real part they would be there in some form for us to see. But the Egyptian did not play. “Solon, Solon, you Greeks are all children,” said the Egyptian priest to the great Athenian.

History abounds in and around New York City, however much of it is buried in the concrete of newer construction. The downtown financial district from Battery Park to Wall Street is such a historical district. Trinity Church at Wall Street and Broadway and the Churchyard surrounding it is where Alexander Hamilton and his wife Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton along with other notables are buried. The story of Alexander Hamilton is an important part of New York City’s history and has become a Broadway musical. At the top of the Palisades in Weehawken is a small park known as the Dueling Grounds. This Revolutionary War site, overlooking New York City to the east, and what had been Half Moon Bay to the north and directly beneath it, is where Alexander Hamilton, a founding father of the United States, was mortally wounded by a single shot from Aaron Burr’s dueling pistol. He died the following day in Greenwich Village at the home of his friend William Bayard Jr.

Luke describes Stephen, Barnabas, and the disciples as “full of the Spirit” (Acts 6:5; 7:55; 11:24; 13:52) and notes that the deacons were expected to be the same (6:3).33 This pipe is made not for a wind that comes in explosive power resulting in extraordinary deeds, like the mighty rushing on the day of Pentecost (2:2). Rather, this pipe is designed for the continual presence of the Spirit which transforms people downcast by persecution into those who experience the unexpected emotions of joy (13:52), contentment (7:59), and forgiveness for their persecutors (7:60). This is not the music of ecstatic utterance but of characteristic constancy.

It might be said that this feeling for violence and brutality, for the pageant and panorama of fascism on the Continent, formed her principal disinterested aesthetic pleasure. She had few others. She read practically nothing: she did not respond to music or pictures: she never went to the theatre and very seldom to the movies: and although she had an instinctive ability to dress well and effectively when she desired, she did not even like pretty things. She only liked what affected her personally and physically and immediately – sleep, warmth, a certain amount of company and talk, drinks, getting drunk, good food, taxis, ease. She was not even responsive to adulation, save when, coming from a man, it promised to further these necessities. She was atrophied. She looked like a Byron beauty, but she was a fish.

The music came back up and the next group of little girls, slightly older, came out. And there was a lot of that in the next hour and change. Older girls, sometimes the same girls, because we got to see them do ballet, jazz, and modern, even a couple of tap dances. I liked dance, and it was no reflection on the kids, but my will to live began to seep away by about the fifth group of sequined children. I

Things Fall Apart,

We spent the rest of the afternoon searching for the lost Girl Scout troop. We found them asleep, drugged with music. They were curled around a sign that said, “No All-Female Groups Beyond This Point. Satyr Breeding Area.” Satyrs have a peculiar sense of humor. I

Used to be, he recalled, that Menotaur would play house music on nights like tonight. Now, that was his groove. Now, it seemed like they only played house on the fifth week in February.

Our task in worship is to prepare ourselves spiritually to hear the Spirit speak, sometimes despite the music and preaching.

Let’s be even more honest. While we might like to think we have smothered everyone with one tasty culture, what we have actually accomplished is closer to the Weird Way of making and eating a salad. We like ourselves, our way of thinking, our music, and our . . . our everything. So we separate all the difference and differents and scatter them across the towns and cities so that each group worships on its own. Churches for men and not really for women, churches for the wealthy and churches for the middle class and churches for the poor, churches for whites and Mexican Americans and African Americans and Asian Americans and Indian Americans. Churches for liberals and churches for fundamentalists, churches for those who follow Calvin, Wesley, Luther, Aquinas, Menno — or for those who follow Hybels, Warren, Stanley, Hamilton, Chandler, or Driscoll. Sunday morning then becomes an exercise in cultural and spiritual segregation, and this has a colossally important impact on the Christian life itself!

Anita,” Jason said. I looked at him and J.J. “You okay?” I shrugged. “I think this is the most complicated BDSM scene I’ve tried without Jean-Claude or Asher involved. It’s like we have all this talent and potential, but no one is in charge.” That was all true. It wasn’t exactly what was spooking me, but it was still part of the truth. It also meant that they’d probably quit asking me what was wrong. “I cannot be with Asher,” Jade said. I shook my head. “I wasn’t suggesting it, just not sure who’s directing everything.” “We’ve made love with Nathaniel in bed with us before,” she said, her voice soft, low, and strangely musical. Her voice didn’t always sound that way, but it often did when she was trying to persuade, or I guess manipulate me. I’d asked her if she’d had theater training, but she didn’t seem to know what I meant, so I’d let it go. I let a lot of things go with Jade, even I knew that, but when she puzzled me enough I stepped back rather than pushing. I wasn’t sure if I was growing up, or she was winning. “You’re in charge, Anita,” Domino said, “so be in charge. What do you want to do?” In my head I thought, Leave. Maybe it showed on my face, because he said, “Do what you enjoy and Jade will follow your lead.” Jade nodded. “Really?” I asked her. “Truly,” she said. “Okay, I know what I want to do.” “I will follow where you lead,” she said. I knew it was both the truth and a lie. She’d follow me for a while, until she decided she didn’t want to, or she got too uncomfortable, then she’d do whatever the hell she wanted to do and somehow it would be my fault, again. I was starting to seriously sympathize with the men who were dating me.

No one has more resilience or matches my practical, tactical brilliance!

I will send a fully armed battalion to remind you of my love

as alexander hamilton who shared my name with one phillp skylar my mother, and my father eliza who i told to steal my identy in the war, iam nothign more then proud of the work on my deathbed writing again. i always surive true imoratlity and amenia disorder wtih life like reborn disorders cant be cured. but as alexian smith the former princess diana and smauel sabery you just seem unread. unscripted. and missed the point of the burnings of heart and bon fires in reetribution to racism in state and notion. You miss the point of what occured or whatever relaxed to it. I dont hate having multiple personaltiis. or living forever in stupid wayward ideas. that donald bloke has a diosrder called idiocy where hes accidently racist and you liked him for that. no i still dont hate you as avery pines. and no matter what occured when i was tortured in stupid situations, worst then a single one and counting somehow creepily for all of them, because my dad was and i was not. you must understand the history of why it was a town you now never knew of the name of. and why it was occurance and why it was the stories of it. And why nobody knew the musical hamilton was about my father alexander of americas presdient and me the secretary of state. my real name is adam snowflake. and if you loved a dam thing i ever wrteo from death note to creepy stalkings or the kingdom diaries or lspds, and what i built at disney naimating snow white and aruara and filming hawkuseris abotu my lack of faith as scince lik ebuilding jeeus you would know i never often resented it after highschool. and its better to remember a dead name as dead. i am not the evil events that defined me. but i am all the pain of them. and that is my wolrd. And you are ar acit for demanding i be things liek civil war or holocuast. and you are a racist slutty loser like i and bad king actors were steryped to be. and no matter what ever occured or how casuality is evil when in office. i want you to know no matter what i study or why i dress. its th history of me being an emo teenage fagot, and my mother was abusive as reya. and just interputed me to scream her ass off as reya fine an adbucter when orphaned. its easy to blame a color when the person is faceless. did you know im half that story. and did you know in the way i looked like the one you liked? When you have a boogie man, its so easy to hate the things you try to stop. Fuck you ukraine im jewish. and i know what you took. and while i didnt go. Oh god can i never go by frank again as someone in a clsoet room who surived that. and i want you to know as adam i will never be what you did to me. but oh god did you amke it look liket he people from russia fuck you royal.

You have married an Icarus, he has flown to close to the sun.

Angelica! (work, work) Eliza! (work, work) And Peggy!

I will kill you friends and family, to remind you of my love. Da-da da-da da, da-da da-da dai-da-da, da-da da da dai da da...

My own list includes Allen Drury, Advise and Consent; Robert Penn Warren, All the King’s Men; Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird; George Orwell, 1984; Gore Vidal, Washington, D.C.; Sinclair Lewis, It Can’t Happen Here. I am also a big fan of the books and short stories of Ward Just. My son came of age watching The West Wing, and I loved both the riotously funny if cynical book and British TV series Yes, Minister. And, even if it is not a substitute for reading The Federalist Papers, you would be hard pressed to spend a more enjoyable evening than watching the musical Hamilton.

SHORTLY AFTER HE BECAME vice president–elect of the United States in November 2016, Mike Pence attended a performance of the Broadway musical Hamilton. Created and composed by Lin-Manuel Miranda, an artist of Puerto Rican descent, and with an openly gay, HIV-positive actor as Miranda’s alternate for the role of Alexander Hamilton, the musical is the embodiment of the American dream, fluid-style. It rewrites the founding of American history as a racially complex, multicultural tale. Its meter is rap music. It’s about a New Yorker, by a New Yorker, and, of course, became a worldwide sensation in New York. So when the audience booed the culturally conservative former governor of red Indiana after his presence in the theater was acknowledged, it was as perfect a storm as one could conjure in the age of the worldview divide.

Effortless AND creative. Listen to the “Hamilton” soundtrack. I know it’s a high bar, but learn from how Lin-Manuel Miranda wrote an entire musical in tight, creative rhyme full of variety and rhythm changes and surprises and cleverness and word-play delights. Internal rhymes, humorous rhymes, break-outs into a different rhythm altogether. A surprise around every corner. Now imagine if all two hours and forty-five minutes of “Hamilton” had been “dah-duh dah-duh dah-duh, dah-dah.” That’s not a ticket you’d have paid $300 for."  Frances Gilbert On Rhyming Picture Books in Goodreads 

That guy who wrote the Hamilton musical will make a new song to raise money.” I force a laugh that lasts too long.

I know I shall disappoint you in a thousand ways before our time on Earth is through. But I hope that you will always see the good in me and know that this unworthy heart of mine will always be yours, no matter what obstacles or failures I bring to your life.

At first they were no more than a list of names on sheets of paper, but as he perused the litany of Alcotts and Kilkelleys and Williamsons, the Josiahs and Ezekiels and Franklins, Alex had a sense of the awesome responsibility that had been placed in his hands. Each of these men was someone’s son, someone’s brother, someone’s husband—someone’s future. And all of them would be risking their lives at his sole discretion. Alex’s wisdom would be their salvation. His folly would be their death.

This is a new country, as you say. Why shouldn’t it have new laws, new customs? And why should not those customs extend to the home itself. To—to love!

Alexander Hamilton,” said Hamilton. “My name is Alexander Hamilton.” “I’m Peyton McCallister,” said Peyton. “And nobody’s done a musical about me, but just you wait. Just you wait.

Good music, humor, soon to be dancers, Richard’s body next to mine, a gun under my arm. What more could a girl ask for?

That Hamilton adhered to a code of gentlemanly honor was confirmed in yet another sideshow of the Benedict Arnold affair: the arrest of Major John André, adjutant general of the British Army and Arnold’s contact, traveling under the nom de guerre John Anderson. As he awaited a hearing to decide his fate, he was confined at a tavern in Tappan, New York. Though seven years younger than André, Hamilton developed a sympathy for the prisoner born of admiration and visited him several times. A letter that Hamilton later wrote to Laurens reveals his nearly worshipful attitude toward the elegant, cultured André, who was conversant with poetry, music, and painting. Hamilton identified with André’s misfortune in a personal manner, as if he saw his own worst nightmare embodied in his fate: To an excellent understanding, well improved by education and travel, [André] united a peculiar elegance of mind and manners and the advantage of a pleasing person. . . . By his merit, he had acquired the unlimited confidence of his general and was making a rapid progress in military rank and reputation. But in the height of his career, flushed with new hopes from the execution of a project the most beneficial to his party that could be devised, he was at once precipitated from the summit of prosperity and saw all the expectations of his ambition blasted and himself ruined.55

My life is rooted in the coexistence of grace and sin, grandeur and failure, brilliance and blindness. I struggle mightily with learning how to accept both sides.

Music is the air made rapturous, achieving the sublime, capturing the harmony of the spheres for a fleeting moment so we can hear it. It is the closest we get to God. So, therefore, it is pure brilliance of the soul.