“The birds sang, the proles sang. the Party did not sing. All round the world, in London and New York, in Africa and Brazil, and in the mysterious, forbidden lands beyond the frontiers, in the streets of Paris and Berlin, in the villages of the endless Russian plain, in the bazaars of China and Japan — everywhere stood the same solid unconquerable figure, made monstrous by work and childbearing, toiling from birth to death and still singing.”
“Oh! lovely voices of the skyWhich hymned the Saviour's birth,Are ye not singing still on high,Ye that sang, "Peace on earth"?”
“Children often sang, adults seldom. At what age did the singing stop?”
“Not surprisingly, he began to sing, and because no one in the world could hear him, and he sang without inhibition, he sang well.”
“Use what talents you possess; the woods would be very quiet if only those birds sing there that sang best.”
“Their singing wasn’t particularly good, but the feeling with which they sang was not bad at all.”