Opera Quotes

“Opera is when a tenor and soprano want to make love, but are prevented from doing so by a baritone”
― George Bernard Shaw

“The remainder of the opera passed without anyone dying, except where the score required them to do so at some length.”
― Terry Pratchett, Maskerade

“Barbara took her accustomed place by the door but as the singing began Margerit beckoned her over to her side. "I haven't been following much except that it's all ancient Greeks and battles and such. What's happening now?"
Barbara knelt beside her and leaned close to whisper so as not to disturb the rest of the party. A brief synopsis of what had gone before took up the time while the chorus escorted the principles to the centre of the stage. "I haven't seen this performance before," Barbara added, "but I imagine this will be the grand love duet." As the soprano began, she concentrated on the stage to follow the opening phrases. The chorus had abandoned the field to the principles who faced each other against a backdrop of fluted columns.
"O! What strange fate is mine!" Barbara paused as the signature line was repeated several times. "I loved you in the guise of Mars, but now I am betrayed by Venus. The iron in your glance turns soft beneath my touch. I am undone. O Venus, you are cruel to mock me so." It continued on in the same vein until it was the mezzo's turn. Her lyrics ran much parallel with the soprano's. With less concentration required, Barbara ventured a glance to see Margerit's reaction. Margerit turned at the same moment and their eyes met as Barbara whispered Ifis's lines.
"O! What a strange fate is mine! In the guise of Mars I love you but now as Venus I'm betrayed. The Iron in my soul turns soft beneath your touch." Unconsciously, Margerit placed a hand on hers where it lay on the arm of her chair. "Fire runs through my veins - I am undone." Fire indeed ran through her veins. Her hand burned sweetly where Margerit touched it and she dared now take it back. Her voice grew husky. "Why do the gods mock me with desire I cannot sate?" Their eyes were still locked and Margerit's lips had parted in a little "o" of wonder. "O Venus, have mercy on one new come to your shrine."
When the soprano joined again for the duet, Margerit breathed along with her, "O! What strange fate is mine!"
With effort, Barbara wrenched her gaze away.”
― Heather Rose Jones, Daughter of Mystery

“The place was still there, present in the sunshine, instead of being hidden far away in darkness in the confines of some tragic opera.”
― Iris Murdoch, The Green Knight

“Of course, opera has plot – and I was already anticipating all those unknown stories I was about to discover – but its main function is to deliver the characters as swiftly as possible to the point where thet can sing of their deepest emotions. Opera cuts to the chase – as death does. So now, contented indifference before Middlesbrough against Slovan Bratislava coexisted with a craving for an art in which violent, overwhelming, hysterical and destructive emotion was the norme; an art which seeks, more obviously than any other form, to break your heart.”
― Julian Barnes, Levels of Life

“He wanted Jo for his heroine, and called upon his memory to supply him with tender recollections and romantic visions of his love. But memory turned traitor, and as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the girl, would only recall Jo's oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in the most unsentimental aspects – beating mats
with her head tied up in a bandana, barricading herself with the sofa pillow, or throwing cold water over his passion a la Gummidge – and an irresistable laugh spoiled the pensive picture he was endeavoring to paint. Jo wouldn't be put into the opera at any price, and he had to give her up with a 'Bless that girl, what a torment she is!' (...)”
― Louisa May Alcott, Little Women

“People think I'm disciplined. It is not discipline. It is devotion. There is a great difference.”
― Luciano Pavarotti, Pavarotti: My Own Story

“Chicago, Illinois 1896
Opening Night
Wearing her Brünnhilda costume, complete with padding, breastplate, helm, and false blond braids, and holding a spear as if it were a staff, Sophia Maxwell waited in the wings of the Canfield-Pendegast theatre. The bright stage lighting made it difficult to see the audience filling the seats for opening night of Die Walküre, but she could feel their anticipation build as the time drew near for the appearance of the Songbird of Chicago.

She took slow deep breaths, inhaling the smell of the greasepaint she wore on her face. Part of her listened to the music for her cue, and the other part immersed herself in the role of the god Wotan’s favorite daughter. From long practice, Sophia tried to ignore quivers of nervousness. Never before had stage fright made her feel ill. Usually she couldn’t wait to make her appearance. Now, however, nausea churned in her stomach, timpani banged pain-throbs through her head, her muscles ached, and heat made beads of persperation break out on her brow. I feel more like a plucked chicken than a songbird, but I will not let my audience down.

Annoyed with herself, Sophia reached for a towel held by her dresser, Nan, standing at her side. She lifted the helm and blotted her forehead, careful not to streak the greasepaint.

Nan tisked and pulled out a small brush and a tin of powder from one of the caprious pockets of her apron. She dipped the brush into the powder and wisked it across Sophia’s forehead. “You’re too pale. You need more rouge.”

“No time.”

A rhythmic sword motif sounded the prelude to Act ll. Sophia pivoted away from Nan and moved to the edge of the wing, looking out to the scene of a rocky mountain pass. Soon the warrior-maiden Brünnhilda would make an appearance with her famous battle cry.

She allowed the anticpaptory energy of the audience to fill her body. The trills of the high strings and upward rushing passes in the woodwinds introduced Brünnhilda. Right on cue, Sophia made her entrance and struck a pose. She took a deep breath, preparing to hit the opening notes of her battle call.

But as she opened her mouth to sing, nothing came out. Caught off guard, Sophia cleared her throat and tried again. Nothing. Horrified, she glanced around, as if seeking help, her body hot and shaky with shame.

Across the stage in the wings, Sophia could see Judith Deal, her understudy and rival, watching.

The other singer was clad in a similar costume to Sophia’s for her role as the valkerie Gerhilde. A triumphant expression crossed her face.

Warwick Canfield-Pendegast, owner of the theatre, stood next to Judith, his face contorted in fury. He clenched his chubby hands.

A wave of dizziness swept through Sophia. The stage lights dimmed. Her knees buckled. As she crumpled to the ground, one final thought followed her into the darkness. I’ve just lost my position as prima dona of the Canfield-Pendegast Opera Company.”
― Debra Holland, Singing Montana Sky

“Gratitude tempers sorrow.”
― Debra Holland, Singing Montana Sky

“it is sufficient to say, that a chorus of work, the whole of my past life - but, as if recalled by an act of memory, but as if present and incarnated in the music: no longer painful to dwell upon: but the detail of it's incidents removed, or blended in some hazy abstraction; and its passions exalted, spiritualized, and sublimed. All this was to be had for five shillings.”
― Thomas de Quincey, The Confessions of an English Opium-Eater and Other Writings

“Aquella noche fue por primera vez a la ópera; con gran sorpresa descubrió que cantaban en italiano y, como no entendía una sola palabra, supuso que toda la representación era una especie de servicio religioso. Deambuló a altas horas de la noche hasta los iluminados chapiteles de San Esteban; la torre sur de la catedral, leyó en una placa, se había iniciado a mediados del siglo XIV y concluido en 1439. Viena, pensó Garp, era un cadáver; posiblemente toda Europa era un cadáver ataviado en un ataúd abierto.”
― John Irving, The World According to Garp

“At some point the listener will lose track of the words altogether and it is then—especially when a single note is held for an impossibly long time, until finally there is a break just before the end, when the singer gasps silently for breath—that Poizat says people start to cry. Listeners sense that the singer’s voice had almost broken free of language, and at the
same time they know that the voice can never break out of language. After the soprano catches her breath and sings the tonic note, the opera goes on in ordinary human language. Poizat thinks only angels can sing and still not
make sense; if human singers could actually move outside of language the result would be a wild scream ing, something dangerously close to insanity. According to Poizat, all true opera lovers feel this, even if it’s unconscious, and all true opera lovers cry. Ordinary pole-faced opera fans do not understand that when the coloratura sings, it’s not a human voice
they are hearing, but “the angel’s cry.”
― Elkins James

“Nichts lieben die Deutschen so von ganzem Herzen wie die Oper. Sie werden durch Gewohnheit und Erziehung dahin geleitet. Auch wir Amerikaner können es ohne Zweifel eines Tages noch zu solcher Liebe bringen. Bis jetzt findet aber vielleicht unter fünfzig Besuchern der Oper einer wirklich Gefallen daran; von den übrigen neunundvierzig gehen viele, glaube ich, hin, weil sie sich daran gewöhnen möchten, und die andern, um mit Sachkenntnis davon reden zu können. Letztere summen gewöhnlich die Melodien vor sich hin, während sie auf der Bühne gesungen werden, um ihren Nachbarn zu zeigen, daß sie nicht zum erstenmal in der Oper sind. Sie verdienten dafür gehängt zu werden.”
― Mark Twain, Meistererzählungen

“Erhebe dich, Genossin meiner Schmach!
Der junge Tag darf hier uns nicht mehr sehn.

Arise, companion of my shame!
Daybreak must not find us here.”
― Richard Wagner, Lohengrin

“Let me try to explain it this way. During a performance, it is the conductor who keeps things together, sees that the singers maintain the right tempi, that the orchestra supports them, that the entrances are on time, that neither is allowed to get away from the other. And he must also see that the orchestra’s playing doesn’t get too loud, that the crescendi build and are dramatic but, at the same time, don’t drown out the singers. When a conductor hears this happening, he can quiet them with a flick of his hand or a finger to the mouth.’ To illustrate, the musician demonstrated the gestures that Brunetti had seen performed during many concerts and operas.

‘And he must, at every moment, be in charge of everything: chorus, singers, orchestra, keeping them in balance perfectly. If he doesn’t do this, then the whole thing falls apart, and all anyone hears is the separate parts, not the whole opera as a unit.”
― donna leon, Death at La Fenice

“We each have an opera of emotions.”
― Anthony T. Hincks

“Opera was born in Florence at the end of the sixteenth century. It derived almost seamlessly from its immediate precursor, the intermedio, or lavish between-the-acts spectacle presented in conjunction with a play on festive occasions. Plays were spoken, and their stage settings were simple: a street backed by palace facades for tragedies, by lower-class houses for comedies; for satyr plays or pastorals, the setting was a woodland or country scene. Meanwhile the ever-growing magnificence of state celebrations in Medici Florence on occasions such as dynastic weddings gave rise to a variety of spectacles involving exuberant scenic displays: naval battles in the flooded courtyard of the Pitti Palace, tournaments in the squares, triumphal entries into the city. These all called upon the services of architects, machinists, costume designers, instrumental and vocal artists. Such visual and aural delights also found their way into the theater—not in plays, with their traditional, sober settings, but between the acts of plays. Intermedi had everything the plays had not: miraculous transformations of scenery, flying creatures (both natural and supernatural), dancing, singing. The plays satisfied Renaissance intellects imbued with classical culture; the intermedi fed the new Baroque craving for the marvelous, the incredible, the impossible. By all accounts, no Medici festivities were as grand and lavish as those held through much of the month of May 1589 in conjunction with the marriage of Grand Duke Ferdinand I and Christine of Lorraine. The intermedi produced between the acts of a comedy on the evening of May 2 were considered to be the highlight of the entire occasion and were repeated, with different plays, on May 6 and 13. Nearly all the main figures we will read about in connection with the birth of opera took part in the extravagant production, which was many months in the making: Emilio de' Cavalieri acted as intermediary between the court and the theater besides being responsible for the actors and musicians and composing some of the music; Giovanni Bardi conceived the scenarios for the six intermedi and saw to it that his highly allegorical allusions were made clear in the realization. Jacopo Peri and Giulio Caccini were among the featured singers, as was the madrigal composer Luca Marenzio, who wrote the music for Intermedio 3, described below. The poet responsible for the musical texts, finally, was Ottavio Rinuccini, who wrote the poetry for the earliest operas...”
― Piero Weiss, Opera: A History in Documents

“La opera nos toca en lo mas profundo de nuestros seres y nos educa a entendernos como seres humanos.”
― Mario Rojas, tenor

“Vieron al anciano atravesar los raíles del tranvía; con pasos torpes, como si tropezara, encaminarse al parterre del centro de la plaza. Atravesó la primera hilera de coches detenidos y se adentró en la zona despejada. Súbitamente cayó de bruces, como si le hubieran dado un empujón. Pero, aparte de él, en la plaza no se veía un alma. Se oyó el impacto. Quedó tendido en el asfalto con los brazos extendidos y la cara contra el suelo. De lejos parecía una gigantesca cucaracha aplastada.”
― Dino Buzzati, Paura alla Scala

“Well, then, mademoiselle, shall I take you to the Riviera?'"
"'Yes,'" -Camille smiled- "'I'd like that.' 'Have you brought your bathing suit?' he'd ask. 'Perfect. And an evening gown as well! We must go to the casino. Don't forget your silver fox coat, it can be cool in Monte Carlo in the evening.' There was a nice smell inside the car. The smell of well-worn leather... It was all so lovely, I remember. The crystal ashtray, the vanity mirror, the tiny little handle to roll the window down, the inside of the glove compartment, the wood. Its was like a flying carpet. 'With a bit of luck we'll get there before nightfall,' he promised. Yes, he was that kind of man, my dad, a big dreamer who could shift gears on a car up on blocks for hours on end and take me to the far corners of the earth in a suburban garage. He was really into opera, too, so wee listened to Don Carlos, La Traviata or The Marriage of Figaro during the trip. He would tell me the stories: Madame Butterfly's sorrow, the impossible love of Pelléas and Mélisande- when he confesses, 'I have something to tell you' and then he can't; the stories with the countess and her Cherub who hides all the time, or Alcina, the beautiful witch who turned her suitors into wild animals.”
― Anna Gavalda, Hunting and Gathering

“Poizat says opera lovers cry because they dimly sense that singing is an attempt to escape from words. Language is like a prison house, he thinks, and the singing voice is like a dove trapped inside: the voice wants to float free, without having to mean anything. In every great aria, Poizat observes, there is a moment when the voice—especially a woman’s voice,
especially a soprano— begins to do amazing things, warbling and trilling, flying up to impossibly high pitches, falling through cascades of arpeggios and grace notes. The words that are sung are under incredible tension: a single syllable can be pulled and stretched so that it seems to go on forever.”
― Elkins James

“The money in the chorus isn’t very good, is it?!” she said.

“No.” It was less than you’d get for scrubbing floors. The reason was that, when you advertised a dirty floor, hundreds of hopefuls didn’t turn up.”
― Terry Pratchett, Maskerade

“Ulaş Başar Gezgin, bu kez 12. Bölümlük bir Opera Metniyle okurun karşısındadır. Türkçe olarak kaleme alınan Librettoların tümünü hem nicelik, hem nitelik açısından bir değerlendirmeye tabii tutmaya kalkışırsak, bu alandaki üretim yoksunluğumuz önümüzdeki en büyük engel olarak belirecektir.

Ulaş Başar Gezgin bu Libretto'yu kaleme alırken geniş bir kültür potasına uzanarak, okuru birbirinden coğrafi olarak yakın, uzak ekin kaynaklarının geçit noktalarında buluşturuyor. Babil Uygarlığı, Zerdüşti kültür birikimi, çok sesli ve renkli Hint ve Asya kültür birikimi 'Cana ve Hubli Purana Opera Librettosu'nun çatısını oluşturuyor.”
― Ulaş Başar Gezgin, Cana ve Hubli Purana Opera Librettosu

“All space-faring civilizations, regardless of individual collective intelligence, reach an inevitable tipping point of exploration potential.”
― Jason Russell, Engineered Civility: 224-Verse

“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!”
― Giacomo Puccini, Puccini's La Boheme (the Dover Opera Libretto Series) (Dover Books On Music: Voice)

“LIEBE • VERLUST • TRAUER • MACHT • EHRGEIZ • VERRAT • WIEDERSEHEN • GLÜCK • WAHNSINN • EINSAMKEIT • TOD”
― Ingo Metzmacher, Vorhang auf!

“Politics is like opera without the music.”
― Jack Freestone

“We hooked up only once and I felt I had communed with my soulmate. I was still a student then she was already in the corps de ballet. A seriously gorgeous woman Lisa was the sexiest woman I have seen in well ever.”
― Yvonna Russell, The Bari Tenor Hunk

“Whenever the Bucharest Opera's curtain rose, the Iron Curtain seemed to go up with it...”
― Maria-Cristina Necula, Life in Opera Truth, Tempo, and Soul: Encounters with Stars, Innovators, and Leaders of Todays Opera World

“In the freezing darkness, the voices and the music alone wrapped the audience in beauty, emotion, and fantasy. The singing soothed, stirred, and seduced until you were madly in love, and became addicted. That was opera in its purest, most sincere form.”
― Maria-Cristina Necula, Life in Opera: Truth, Tempo, and Soul: Encounters with Stars, Innovators, and Leaders of Today's Opera World