William Christopher Handy Quotes
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You can never tell what's in a woman's mind, And if she's from Harlem, there's no use o' tryin
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I knew the whistle of each of the river boats on the Tennessee.
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A lean, loose-jointed Negro had commenced plunking a guitar beside me while I slept. His clothes were rags; his feet peeped out of his shoes. His face had on it some of the sadness of the ages. As he played, he pressed a knife on the strings of the guitar in a manner popularized by Hawaiian guitarists who used steel bars. The effect was unforgettable.
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The name of my ailment was longing, and it was not cured till I finally went to the department store and counted out the money in small coins before the dismayed clerk. When I came to the house, I held up the instrument before the eyes of the astonished household.
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Where the Tennessee River, like a silver snake, winds her way through the clay hills of Alabama, sits high on these hills, my home town, Florence.
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The blues - the sound of a sinner on revival day.
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Life is like a trumpet - if you don't put anything into it, you don't get anything out of it.
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Whenever I heard the song of a bird and the answering call of its mate, I could visualize the notes in scale, all built up within my consciousness as a natural symphony.
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With a guitar I would be able to express the things I felt in sounds.
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Sometimes I feel like nothin,' somethin' throwed away, Somethin' throwed away. And then I get my guitar, play the blues all day.
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I hate to see the evening sun go down.
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I think America concedes that true American music has sprung from the Negro.
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Nature was my kindergarten.
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Setting my mind on a musical instrument was like falling in love. All the world seemed bright and changed.
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In the South of long ago whenever a new man appeared for work in any of the laborers gangs, he would be asked if he could sing. If he could he got the job. The singing of these working men set the rhythm for the work.
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My big ears indicated a talent for music. This thrilled me.
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You've got to appreciate the things that come from the art of the Negro and from the heart of the man farthest down.
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Saving was slow and painful.
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If my serenade of song and story should serve as a pillow for some composer's head, as yet perhaps unborn, to dream and build on our fond melodies in his tomorrow, I have not labored in vain.
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You'll never miss the water 'til the well runs dry.