Reputation Lyric Quotes

Animal minds are simple, and therefore sharp. Animals never spend time dividing experience into little bits and speculating about all the bits they've missed. The whole panoply of the universe has been neatly expressed to them as things to (a) mate with, (b) eat, (c) run away from, and (d) rocks. This frees the mind from unnecessary thoughts and gives it a cutting edge where it matters. Your normal animal, in fact, never tries to walk and chew gum at the same time. The average human, on the other hand, thinks about all sorts of things around the clock, on all sorts of levels, with interruptions from dozens of biological calendars and timepieces. There's thoughts about to be said, and private thoughts, and real thoughts, and thoughts about thoughts, and a whole gamut of subconscious thoughts. To a telepath the human head is a din. It is a railway terminus with all the Tannoys talking at once. It is a complete FM waveband- and some of those stations aren't reputable, they're outlawed pirates on forbidden seas who play late-night records with limbic lyrics.

My reputation's never been worse, so You must like me for me

The song “End Game” came on, and as I listened to the lyrics, I realized that I wanted to be Emerson’s end game. Because she was certainly mine. I loved her. I had for a while now. I just had been too scared to admit it.

Sadly, people boycotted me, and I don´t even have internet access permanently right now, and i am pretty much ruined... Incase you didnt forget about me, I live in Lore Kullmer Straße 3, Rainsboro (Regensburg), Appartment Roth/ Bülbül. Happy Birthday too btw. Greetings, the Guy from the tshirt/ the lyrics one.

The average human, on the other hand, thinks about all sorts of things, around the clock, on all sorts of levels, with interruptions from dozens of biological calendars and timepieces. There’s thoughts about to be said, and private thoughts, and real thoughts, and thoughts about thoughts, and a whole gamut of subconscious thoughts. To a telepath the human head is a din. It is a railway terminus with all the Tannoys talking at once. It is a complete FM waveband – and some of those stations aren’t reputable, they’re outlawed pirates on forbidden seas who play late-night records with limbic lyrics.

Some reputable scientists, even today, are not wholly satisfied with the notion that the song of birds is strictly and solely a territorial claim. It’s an important point. We’ve been on earth all these years and we still don’t know for certain why birds sing. We need someone to unlock the code to the foreign language and give us the key; we need a new Rosetta stone. Today I watched and heard a wren, a sparrow, and the mockingbird sing. My brain started to trill, why why why, what is the meaning meaning meaning? It’s not that they know something we don’t; we know much more than they do, and surely they don’t even know why they sing. No; we have been as usual asking the wrong question. It does not matter a hoot what the mockingbird on the chimney is singing. If the mockingbird were chirping to give us the long-sought formulae for a unified field theory, the point would be only slightly less irrelevant. The real and proper question is: Why is it beautiful? The question is there since I take it as given as I have said, that beauty is something objectively performed- the tree that falls in the forest- having being externally, stumbled across, or missed, as real and present as both sides of the moon…If the lyric is simply, mine mine mine, then why the extravagance of the score? It has the liquid, intricate sound of every creek’s tumble over every configuration of rock creek-bottom in the country. Beauty itself is the language to which we have no key; it is the mute cipher, the cryptogram, the uncracked, unbroken code. And it could be that for beauty there is no key, that it will never make sense in our language but only in its own, and that we need to start all over again, on a new continent, learning the strange syllables one by one.

One of my role models is Bob Dylan. As I grew up, I learned the lyrics to all his songs and watched him never stand still. If you look at the artists, if they get really good, it always occurs to them at some point that they can do this one thing for the rest of their lives, and they can be really successful to the outside world but not really be successful to themselves. That’s the moment that an artist really decides who he or she is. If they keep on risking failure, they’re still artists. Dylan and Picasso were always risking failure. This Apple thing is that way for me. I don’t want to fail, of course. But even though I didn’t know how bad things really were, I still had a lot to think about before I said yes. I had to consider the implications for Pixar, for my family, for my reputation. I decided that I didn’t really care, because this is what I want to do. If I try my best and fail, well, I tried my best.

Unfolding according to the contemplative logic of their lyrical orbits, Astral Weeks’s songs unhooked themselves from pop’s dependence on verse/chorus structure, coasting on idling rhythms, raging and subsiding with the ebb and flow of Morrison’s soulful scat. The soundworld – a loose-limbed acoustic tapestry of guitar, double bass, flute, vibraphone and dampened percussion – was unmistakably attributable to the calibre of the musicians convened for the session: Richard Davis, whose formidable bass talents had shadowed Eric Dolphy on the mercurial Blue Note classic Out to Lunch; guitarist Jay Berliner had previous form with Charles Mingus; Connie Kay was drummer with The Modern Jazz Quartet; percussionist/vibesman Warren Smith’s sessionography included Miles Davis, Aretha Franklin, Nat King Cole, Sam Rivers and American folk mystics Pearls Before Swine. Morrison reputedly barely exchanged a word with the personnel, retreating to a sealed sound booth to record his parts and leaving it to their seasoned expertise to fill out the space. It is a music quite literally snatched out of the air.

Drama is not a genre for infant prodigies: I can't think of a dramatist who made a major reputation as early as, say, Keats or Rimbaud in lyric poetry.

She smells like amber and feels like silk, and I’m not sure how I’m ever going to crawl out of this bed and be the person I was when I climbed in. This feeling is every love song I’ve ever sang, every emotion I’ve tried to elicit with a constructed lyric. It’s calm in the midst of an unpredictable world. It’s safe when nothing else feels solid. It’s like the last piece of the puzzle that you find under the rug snapped into place, and the hours of searching for that one tiny piece finally pays off.

Adi Shankaracharya, who is credited with the revival of Hinduism, could fearlessly rubbish central tenets of Hindu faith with lyrical felicity. In his famous stotra, the Nirvana Shatakam, he states—Na dharmo, na chartho, na kamo, na moksha: None of the four purusharthas or goals of life in the Hindu world view have meaning. Indeed, he goes further to say—Na mantro, na teertham, na veda, na yajnah: Neither mantra, nor pilgrimage sites, nor consecrated ritual, not even the Vedas are of any value. All that matters is Chit-ananda rupam: Awareness and Bliss. In this context, he actually conflates himself with Shiva—Shivo ham, Shivo ham: I am Shiva, I am Shiva. In most other conventional religions, especially the Abrahamic faiths, this assumption of godhood would be considered blasphemy. Indeed, by contrast, we have the example of the great Sufi mystic, Al-Hallaj (858–922 CE), in Persia, almost contemporaneous with Shankaracharya, who was put to death for having had the temerity to say—Ana’l Haq: I am the Truth. In ancient Greece, Socrates, the great philosopher, in the fourth century BCE, was sentenced to be killed by drinking hemlock, accused of ‘impiety’ and for his espousal of what is now called the logic of Socrates. At that very time in India, many divergent schools of philosophy were revelling in the freedom given by their faith to explore the truth in the way they thought fit. In such a milieu, Buddhism was genuinely under threat of being assimilated within the larger diversified matrix of Hinduism; indeed, many Hindus still believe that Buddha was the last avatar of Vishnu. No wonder then, that Buddhism could flourish with much greater ease with its identity as separately preserved, outside the shores of India, than in the land where it was born. Actually, Amartya Sen is right when he writes that Sanskrit has a larger volume of agnostic or atheist writings than any other classical language. Sheldon Pollock too is strongly rebutted by other reputed Western scholars. George Cardona, also a prominent Western Sanskrit scholar, emphasises ‘the sharp critical thinking skills of early Sanskrit studies across various disciplines. … At no point in early and medieval India was there an absolute, thoughtless acceptance of tradition, even by different followers of a single tradition. … Nor are grammatical, exegetical, or logical systems made solely as maidservants to Vedic tradition.