Pavarotti Quotes

One of the very best things about life is the way we must regularly stop whatever it is we are doing and devote our attention to eating.

If you know why you fall in love, you aren't in love

One of the very nicest things about life is the way we must regularly stop whatever it is we are doing and devote our attention to eating.

People think I'm disciplined. It is not discipline. It is devotion. There is a great difference.

Learning music by reading about it is like making love by mail.

Nothing that has happened has made me feel gloomy or remain depressed. I love my life.

People think I'm disciplined. It is not discipline. It is devotion. There is a great difference.

Critics of disparities often either explicitly or implicitly call for some kind or approximation of equality. But when we speak of “equality” among human beings, what do we mean? We certainly cannot all sing like Pavarotti, think like Einstein or land a commercial airliner safely in the Hudson River like pilot “Sully” Sullenberger. Clearly we cannot all be equally capable of doing concrete things. In terms of specific capabilities in real life, a given man is not even equal to himself at different stages of life—sometimes not even on different days—much less equal to all others who are in varying stages of their own lives.

younger. In addition to his imposing presence and his brilliant reputation, there were his sermons. Delivered with passion, humor, roaring indignation or stirring whispers, the sermon, for Albert Lewis, was like the fastball for a star pitcher, like the aria for Pavarotti. It was the reason people came; we knew it—and deep down, I think he knew it. I’m sure there are congregations where they slip out before the sermon begins. Not ours. Wristwatches were glanced at and footsteps hurried when people thought they might be late for the Reb’s message. Why? I guess because he didn’t approach the sermon in a traditional way. I would later learn that, while he was trained in a formal, academic style—start at point A, move to point B, provide

As explained above, those who believe in the theory of evolution think that a few atoms and molecules thrown into a huge vat could produce thinking, reasoning professors and university students; such scientists as Einstein and Galileo; such artists as Humphrey Bogart, Frank Sinatra and Luciano Pavarotti; as well as antelopes, lemon trees, and carnations. Moreover, as the scientists and professors who believe in this nonsense are educated people, it is quite justifiable to speak of this theory as "the most potent spell in history." Never before has any other belief or idea so taken away peoples' powers of reason, refused to allow them to think intelligently and logically, and hidden the truth from them as if they had been blindfolded. This is an even worse and unbelievable blindness than the totem worship in some parts of Africa, the people of Saba worshipping the Sun, the tribe of Prophet Ibrahim (as) worshipping idols they had made with their own hands, or the people of Prophet Musa (as) worshipping the Golden Calf. In fact, Allah has pointed to this lack of reason in the Qur'an. In many verses, He reveals that some peoples' minds will be closed and that they will be powerless to see the truth. Some of these verses are as follows: As for those who do not believe, it makes no difference to them whether you warn them or do not warn them, they will not believe. Allah has sealed up their hearts and hearing and over their eyes is a blindfold. They will have a terrible punishment. (Surat al-Baqara, 6-7) … They have hearts with which they do not understand. They have eyes with which they do not see. They have ears with which they do not hear. Such people are like cattle. No, they are even further astray! They are the unaware. (Surat al-A‘raf, 179) Even if We opened up to them a door into heaven, and they spent the day ascending through it, they would only say: "Our eyesight is befuddled! Or rather we have been put under a spell!" (Surat al-Hijr, 14-15)

If any man among you seem to be religious, and bridleth not his tongue, but deceiveth his own heart, this man’s religion is vain. —James 1:26 (KJV) When I was in my twenties, I started going to the opera. An enthusiastic novice, I’d walk joyfully to the lobby for intermission, only to hear the dismissive remarks of the jaded veterans. A fine performance by Pavarotti? “He has no squillo. You really should have heard Corelli in that part.” An incredible high note from Joan Sutherland? “Too bad you couldn’t have heard her twenty years ago.” I’d go back to my seat for the second act, regretting that I wasn’t twenty years older rather than enjoying the singing that night. I’ve tried, with diminishing success as I’ve grown older, to be less of a curmudgeon. But the place I’ve failed utterly has been church. Walking home on Sunday mornings, I’ve recited a litany of complaints. “The music here is terrible. Do you remember the choir at St. So-and-So’s?” “There was no meat in that sermon. Father X was so much more thoughtful.” “Did you see the sneakers the altar server was wearing? We’d never have let that pass at St. Thingummy’s.” Finally, my wife, Julia, had enough. “What are you doing for Lent?” she asked. “Giving up peanut butter, like always,” I answered. “How about giving up all that negativity?” So I tried. Sometimes I’d just keep quiet. Sometimes I’d catch myself mid-complaint. Sometimes I’d even say something positive! And you know what? I found myself praying rather than looking for things I didn’t like. After all, I was there for God’s sake, not my own. You know what else? This Lent I’m going to find something good to say every Sunday. Lord, keep my attention where it really belongs—on You. —Andrew Attaway Digging Deeper: Jl 2:12–13; 1 Pt 5:6

Seríamos capaces de abuchear a Luciano Pavarotti si desafinara en su ópera prima, pero aplaudimos al líder de alabanza que «desafina para la gloria de Dios». Pedir

Paul Costelloe One of the most established and experienced names in British fashion, Irish-born Paul Costelloe has maintained a highly successful design label for more than twenty-five years. He was educated in Paris and Milan, and has since become known for his expertise in fabrics, primarily crisp linen and tweed. I remember another moment, in the pouring rain in Hyde Park, when Pavarotti was singing for an audience. Diana went up to him in a design of mine, a double-breasted suit consisting of a jacket and skirt. She was absolutely soaked and she was beautifully suntanned. To me, the most radiant photograph of her that has ever appeared anywhere was taken then. If you ever get a chance to look at it, you must. It is featured in a couple of books about her. It really is something special to me--I have it on my wall, in my studio, at this very moment. Whenever I look at it, I get a lump in my throat. There was another occasion when she wore something of mine that stands out in my mind. Diana was wearing a very sheer skirt and jacket and was standing in the sun. She was in India, in front of the Taj Mahal, and her skirt was see-through. Of course, the press went full out on that. My last memory of her is when she was wearing a linen dress of mine in Melbourne and was surrounded by a large group of Australian swimmers. That, for me, was a very exciting moment. She was always incredibly polite, incredibly generous. There is simply no comparison. She had a completely different manner from everyone else. I have been to Buckingham Palace, and she was always far above the rest. I must have been the one and only Irishman ever to dress a member of the Royal Family!

Apparently, when I started to sing, his sister shrieked in alarm, “That is my father’s voice!” My voice had the exact timbre of their father, who had died two days before, promising that he would be there onstage with Pavarotti. That was why he stopped me. He heard his father’s voice too, coming out of my mouth, and was completely unnerved.

But not here,” she added. “Let’s take a walk around the block.” Myron nodded and they rose. Before they reached the door, his cell phone rang. Myron snatched it up with a speed that would have made Wyatt Earp step back. He put the phone to his ear and cleared his throat. “MB SportsReps,” he said, silky-smooth, professional-like. “This is Myron Bolitar speaking.” “Nice phone voice,” Esperanza said. “You sound like Billy Dee ordering two Colt 45s.” Esperanza Diaz was his longtime assistant and now sports-agent partner at MB SportsReps (M for Myron, the B for Bolitar—for those keeping score). “I was hoping you were Lamar,” he said. “He hasn’t called yet?” “Nope.” He could almost see Esperanza frown. “We’re in deep doo-doo here,” she said. “We’re not in deep doo-doo. We’re just sucking a little wind, that’s all.” “Sucking a little wind,” Esperanza repeated. “Like Pavarotti running the Boston Marathon.” “Good one,” Myron said. “Thanks.” Lamar Richardson was a power-hitting Golden Glove shortstop who’d just become a free agent—“free agent” being a phrase agents whisper in the same way a mufti might whisper “Praise Allah.” Lamar was shopping for new representation and had whittled his final list down to three agencies: two supersized conglomerates with enough office space to house a Price Club and the aforementioned pimple-on-the-buttocks but oh-so-personal MB SportsReps. Go, pimple-butt! Myron watched his mother standing by the door. He switched ears and said, “Anything else?” “You’ll never guess who called,” Esperanza said. “Elle and Claudia demanding another ménage à trois?” “Oooo, close.” She

une grande bibliothéque en merisier investit toute une aile . C'était notre coin intime;notre retraite dorée. Nous y venions parfois communier avec nos silences et recycler nos sens émoussés par les bruits de tous les jours. Nous prenions un livre ou mettions une musique ,et nous voilà partis . Nous lisions aussi bien que Kafka que Khalil Gibran et écoutions avec la méme gratitude Oum Kalsoum et ou Pavarotti..

They clamber aboard their airship, which inflates from inside a Portakabin – rather like Pavarotti emerging from his tent at Glyndebourne – and float away from Amberley Working Museum in Sussex, which doubled as ‘Main Strike Mine’. If you visit the museum today, they still have the Zorin-branded mine carts and the windmill, and you can look inside the mine entrance.

Upon departing from this mortal coil, let it be known: they resided in the era of Luciano Pavarotti, the supreme tenor of all ages!

Se algo dá errado, costumamos nos voltar para dentro e nos culpar. Mas será mesmo culpa nossa? Por exemplo, se eu fosse James Taylor e alguém estivesse procurando Pavarotti, eu naturalmente não seria escolhido. Mas isso não quer dizer que me falte talento musical. Significa que eu não sou a pessoa certa apenas para aquilo. Seja mais confiante e pare de se maltratar.

Pavarotti is dead and the streets are full of arias, my brother. Every window a tenor leans, there are sopranos in the olive branches. And all across the globe the world turns to crescendos.

This room was our ivory tower, Sihem and mine. No one else was ever admitted here. Sometimes we'de come here to commune with our silence and reactivate our senses, dulled and blunted by the noises of every day. We'd bring a book or put on some music, and then we were off. We read Kafka as well as Khalil Gibran, and listened to Oum Kalthoum and Pavarotti with the same grattitude....