Puccini Quotes

See, the night doth enfold us! See, all the world lies sleeping!

Inspiration is an awakening, a quickening of all man's faculties, and it is manifested in all high artistic achievements.

How the stars shone. How sweet the earth smelled. The orchard gate creaked, and a footstep pressed on the sand. And she entered, fragrant as a flower, and fell into my arms. Oh, sweet kisses, lingering caresses. Slowly, trembling, I gazed upon her beauty. Now my dream of true love is lost forever. My last hour has flown, and I die, hopeless, and never have I loved life more.

She's sweet on Wagner. I think she'd die for Beethoven. she loves the way Puccini lays down a tune, and Verdi's always creeping from her room.

As I lie on my couch by the fireplace, looking out from my hillside home at the snow leading down to the ocean, with the right woman in my arms, a glass of Bordeaux beside me and a Puccini opera on the stereo system, knowing that I’ve earned the pleasure I feel, I’m so glad I didn’t let someone else decide what’s best for me.

I think," she began quietly, "I think we want... not just bread for our bellies. We want more than only bread. We want food for our hearts, our souls. We want- how to say it? We want, you know- Puccini music.... we want for our beautiful children some beauty." She leaned over and kissed the curl on her finger. "We want roses....

Braveggia, urla! T'affretta a palesarmi il fondo dell'alma ria!'' ''Shout, braggart! What a rush you're in to show me the last dregs of your vile soul!

Love is in vain if Luck isn’t there! / Vano è l’amorese non c’è fortuna!

هر آنکس که نمی تواند با افتخار زندگی کند، با افتخار خواهد مرد اپرای مادام باترفلای* *جاکومو پوچّینی

Vissi d'arte, vissi d'amore, non feci mai male ad anima viva!

Beware: this is a place of tears. Questo è luogo di lagrime! Badate!

آن چیست که همچون آتش جرقه می زند و گرما می بخشد اما آتش نیست؟ **جاکومو پوچینی اپرای توراندخت

Since I met you, I listen to Puccini from within.

This is my Italy, she thought. The power and beauty of the antiquities, the detailed frescos, the imposing statuaries carved of milk white granite, Don Martinelli's hammered gold chalice, the glorious tones of the music, the Italy of Puccini and Verdi, Caruso and Toscanini, not the Italy of the shattered spirits in Hoboken and the drunken, desperate Anna Buffa. This was the Italy that fed her soul, where hope was restored and broken hearts were mended in the hands of great artists.

There was a picture of Don Hector on the wall and next to the television was a phonograph with a large collection of cylinders. I looked through them. They were a mixture of old favourites – Dark Side of the Moon, Rumours, Ziggy Stardust – mixed with jazz and a little Puccini.

Even you, o Princess, in your cold room, watch the stars, that tremble with love and with hope. But my secret is hidden within me, my name no one shall know...

The quintessential China Doll is submissive, eager to please, obedient, and permanently pleasant, and lives for no reason other than to make her white lover happy. Nowhere has she been embodied quite so roundly as in the most-performed opera in the United States today, Puccini’s classic Madama Butterfly, based on a one-act play that was in turn based on an 1887 smash-hit semiautobiographical French

Later he would tell her that their story began at the Royal Hungarian Opera House, the night before he left for Paris on the Western Europe Express. The year was 1937; the month was September, the evening unseasonably cold. His brother had insisted on taking him to the opera as a parting gift. The show was Tosca and their seats were at the top of the house. Not for them the three marble-arched doorways, the façade with its Corinthian columns and heroic entablature. Theirs was a humble side entrance with a red-faced ticket taker, a floor of scuffed wood, walls plastered with crumbling opera posters. Girls in knee-length dresses climbed the stairs arm in arm with young men in threadbare suits; pensioners argued with their white-haired wives as they shuffled up the five narrow flights. At the top, a joyful din: a refreshment salon lined with mirrors and wooden benches, the air hazy with cigarette smoke. A doorway at its far end opened onto the concert hall itself, the great electric-lit cavern of it, with its ceiling fresco of Greek immortals and its gold-scrolled tiers. Andras had never expected to see an opera here, nor would he have if Tibor hadn’t bought the tickets. But it was Tibor’s opinion that residence in Budapest must include at least one evening of Puccini at the Operaház. Now Tibor leaned over the rail to point out Admiral Horthy’s box, empty that night except for an ancient general in a hussar’s jacket. Far below, tuxedoed ushers led men and women to their seats, the men in evening dress, the women’s hair glittering with jewels.

Even if there is no connection between diversity and international influence, some people would argue that immigration brings cultural enrichment. This may seem to be an attractive argument, but the culture of Americans remains almost completely untouched by millions of Hispanic and Asian immigrants. They may have heard of Cinco de Mayo or Chinese New Year, but unless they have lived abroad or have studied foreign affairs, the white inhabitants of Los Angeles are likely to have only the most superficial knowledge of Mexico or China despite the presence of many foreigners. Nor is it immigrants who introduce us to Cervantes, Puccini, Alexander Dumas, or Octavio Paz. Real high culture crosses borders by itself, not in the back pockets of tomato pickers, refugees, or even the most accomplished immigrants. What has Yo-Yo Ma taught Americans about China? What have we learned from Seiji Ozawa or Ichiro about Japan? Immigration and the transmission of culture are hardly the same thing. Nearly every good-sized American city has an opera company, but that does not require Italian immigrants. Miami is now nearly 70 percent Hispanic, but what, in the way of authentic culture enrichment, has this brought the city? Are the art galleries, concerts, museums, and literature of Los Angeles improved by diversity? Has the culture of Detroit benefited from a majority-black population? If immigration and diversity bring cultural enrichment, why do whites move out of those very parts of the country that are being “enriched”? It is true that Latin American immigration has inspired more American school children to study Spanish, but fewer now study French, German, or Latin. If anything, Hispanic immigration reduces what little linguistic diversity is to be found among native-born Americans. [...] [M]any people study Spanish, not because they love Hispanic culture or Spanish literature but for fear they may not be able to work in America unless they speak the language of Mexico. Another argument in favor of diversity is that it is good for people—especially young people —to come into contact with people unlike themselves because they will come to understand and appreciate each other. Stereotyped and uncomplimentary views about other races or cultures are supposed to crumble upon contact. This, of course, is just another version of the “contact theory” that was supposed to justify school integration. Do ex-cons and the graduates—and numerous dropouts—of Los Angeles high schools come away with a deep appreciation of people of other races? More than half a century ago, George Orwell noted that: 'During the war of 1914-18 the English working class were in contact with foreigners to an extent that is rarely possible. The sole result was that they brought back a hatred of all Europeans, except the Germans, whose courage they admired.

During his stay in New York, Puccini wrote in my score of Bohème: Alle gentile diva    Frances Alda    Gatti-Casazza della voce pura, dolce, & chiara con amicizia sincere offre ammirando         Giacomo Puccini N.Y. 1910

My heart is going like a contrabass,’ Puccini said.

Beneath a common banner of classically liberal ideals, countless tastes and traditions may mingle and mutate into ever new and exciting flavors. Thus would be born a homeland where the Sufi dances with the Breslover round the neon jungle of Times Square, where the Baptist of Alabama nods along to the merry melodies of Klezmer, where the secular humanist combs the Christian gospels and poems of Rumi for their many pearls of wisdom, where the Guatemalan college student learns to read Marx and Luxemburg in their original German, where the Russian refugee freely markets her own art painted in the style of Van Gogh and Monet, where the Italian chef tosses up a Lambi stew for his Haitian wife’s birthday while the operas of Verdi and Puccini play on his radio, where two brothers in exile share the wine of the Galilee and Golan while listening to the oud music of Nablus and Nazareth, where the Buddhist and the stoner hike through redwood trails and swap thoughts of life and death beneath a star-spangled sky. In this America, only the polyglot sets the lingua franca, the bully pulpit yields to the poets café, decent discourse finds favor over any cocksure shouting match, no library is so uniform as to betray to a tee its owner’s beliefs, no citizen is so selfish as to live for only themself nor so weak of will as to live only for others, and such a land—as yet a dream deferred, but still a dream we may seize—such a land would truly be worthy of you and me.

Am I telling the truth? I think I am a truthful man. From moment to moment I believe myself sincere, but sometimes looking back I can see I've been mistaken, even that I've lied.

I am someone who has spent his adult life on the periphery of literature in the way that a small animal will remain just beyond the glow of the campfire, observing the strange doings of the human creatures settling in for the night.

But the hardest task in any writing is to present the truth so it can be seen as true. One cannot just give the history of an event in a straightforward manner and expect it to be believed. That history must have a shape. It must have direction and movement.

...yes, we were pretty good boys. After all, we were the future middle class. "...By then some of us had behaved badly. There were illegitimate children, petty theft, various forms of betrayal. But, even so, I think we would have called ourselves basically good. And if a few of us had gotten into trouble, we could point to complicated circumstances, weaknesses, errors of judgement; yet even with these lapses we would still have claimed a certain morality. We were decent, or hoped we were. But where does it change? ... It depends on what you want and how much you want it and how you place yourself in relation to the generally accepted system of morality. You know that old argument that some people have the right to set aside conventional morality because of their superiority or whatever? Clearly, there are people who do terrible things and are able to justify their misconduct by need or superiority or by saying they weren't responsible. But if these things continue and if you're unable to avoid self-deception, then you reach a point where you have to say, No, I am not a good person. I have behaved badly. That is the first admission. The second admission is that I will continue to behave badly.

For instance, look at Malgiolio. He takes no responsibility for his personal life and has no interest in the public. In varying degrees this might be true of all of us. If one is not absolutely destitute and downtrodden or physically handicapped, one probably gets the life one deserves. From this it follows that one gets the sort of government one deserves. I mean, if my fellow citizens are fighting in the streets, am I not to some degree responsible? ...Things happen to a person; that is, life deals you a set of cards and you play them as you are able. If I do my best I can and make no trouble for my neighbors, then surely I cannot be blamed either for my existence or my government. There are forces that buffet us through life that nor mere individual can withstand. Better to stick to my books and musings about literature and leave the government to those who know best. That was certainly was what I believed for years, but this evening I had begun to wonder, foolishly perhaps, if it wasn't that sort of thinking which had helped bring about this current state of affairs.

los hombres mueren y los gobiernos cambian, pero las canciones de La Bohéme vivirán siempre. Thomas Alva edison

Chi il bel sogno di Doretta potè indovinar? Il suo mister come mai come mai fini Ahimè! un giorno uno studente in bocca la baciò e fu quel bacio rivelazione: fu la passione! Folle amore! Folle ebbrezza! Chi la sottil carezza d'un bacio così ardente mai ridir potrà? Ah! mio sogno! Ah! mia vita! Che importa la ricchezza se alfine è rifiorita la felicità! O sogno d'or poter amar così!

He laid the new records on the table. One, two, three, four. Sacred music by Pérotin, Tosca by Puccini, James Brown’s “Ain’t It Funky Now, Parts 1 and 2,” and Led Zeppelin IV.

Still, both Rent and Spring Awakening ultimately use gay characters to bolster heteronormativity. Angel serves as the emotional touchstone of Rent, endlessly generous and hopeful, caring and sensitive. All mourn his death, which compels the other characters to look at their lives and choices. That Angel’s death enables the other characters to learn about themselves replicates a typical (tired) trope in which an Other (usually a person of color or a person with a disability) aids in the self-actualization of the principal character. Also, Collins and Angel have the most loving and healthy relationship, which the musical needs to eliminate so as not to valorize the gay male couple above all else. In addition, Joanne and Maureen sing a lively number, “Take Me or Leave Me,” but the musical doesn’t take their relationship seriously. Maureen is presented as a fickle, emotionally abusive, yet irresistible lover (Joanne and Mark’s duet, “The Tango Maureen”) and a less-than-accomplished artist (her “The Cow Jumped over the Moon” is a parody of performance art).15 In contrast, Mimi and Roger’s relationship lasts through the end of the musical, since Mimi comes back to life. This choice, one of the few that differs from Puccini’s La Bohème (which provides the primary situational basis for Rent), shows how beholden twentieth-century musicals—even tragedies—are to the convention of a heterosexually happy ending.

Is walking essential to creativity? Many great thinkers, artists, and entrepreneurs throughout history, from Aristotle to Giacomo Puccini to, yes, Steve Jobs, would probably have agreed.

I’ve so many things to tell you, or rather only one, but that one is huge as the ocean, as deep and infinite as the sea… You are my love and my whole life!

Seit ich dich kenne, höre ich Puccini in meinem Innern.

I lived in art, I lived in love, I never hurt a soul! (Vissi d'arte, vissi d'amore, non feci mai male ad anima viva! )

Puccini had just vividly demonstrated the greatest evil and cruelty to humankind lay not in what you do to a person directly, but in separating them from those they love.

Calming, soothing and almost without peer. The second, naturally, is a hot soaking bath. The third is Puccini. In the bath with a hot cup of tea and Puccini. Heaven.

Love rejoices in the truth, which is that I love you in some deep strange mysterious way that has nothing much to do with swooning and making out in the car and everything to do with laughing together and brushing hands against your hair when you are almost asleep just because you look like an exhausted angel and I know you have to get up at dawn to walk the blessed dog. Love bears all things, even turducken misadventures and kitchen cabinets repaired with duct tape and Puccini sung badly in the shower and the shower head repaired with duct tape and not enough money and an army of teenagers -- whose idea was it to have all these children anyway it's not like we can afford them but still what would we have been without them other than much better rested? Love believes all things, even the astounding idea that we are still married, love hopes all things, like maybe the duct-tape market will collapse and someone we will not name will actually no kidding get a screwdriver and fix the blessed hinges on the cabinet not to mention the shower head.

Tosca. Schwarzkopf and Black Beauty. Puccini.

Without Puccini, there is no opera; without opera, the world is an even drearier place than the evening news would have us think.

EMOTIONAL ART IS A KIND OF ILLNESS