42
" I don’t care what the shameful voices in your head tell you, or the deafening lies that the memories whisper. I don’t care if you’re reading this from a prison cell staring at decades in the face, or from the plush comfort of first class staring out over the shimmering face of the Pacific. We’re all broken, all walk with a limp. Here is the truth about you and me: even when in a far-off country, wasted life, stripped bare, smeared, squandered, nothing but scar tissue and shameful, self-inflicted wounds, the love of the Father finds the son and daughter. He finds us. This "
― Charles Martin , Long Way Gone
53
" Describing music is tricky. I’m not convinced that you can describe it like, say, a painting or a novel. While those are both experiences that produce feelings, they do so through the window of the eyes. The image we see—either images or words on a page—enters our eyes, travels through our intellect, where we make some sort of sense of it, and then routes through our emotions. The process is one of intellect and understanding first, emotions and feelings second. In my experience, music doesn’t work that way. Music enters us through the ears, where it makes a beeline to the grid of our emotions. Then it routes through to our intellect where we might “make some sense” of it. Music is felt on one level, and understood or processed on another. This doesn’t mean you can’t use your intellect to describe it . . . but I question whether the words we use can really do the job. It’s like describing the smell of the number 9. Music is meant to be experienced, not described. "
― Charles Martin , Long Way Gone