He was a composer who wrote old-fashioned scores for motion pictures, and modern symphonies for sparse audiences.
It was a symphony of triumph.
She listened to the symphony, thinking: This is why the wheels have to be kept going, and this is where they’re going.
She had never heard that symphony before, but she knew that it was written by Richard Halley.
She did not know whether she was hearing a full symphony orchestra or only the theme; perhaps she was hearing the orchestration in her own mind.
This-she thought, listening to the symphony— had been the goal of his struggle.
He was whistling the theme of the symphony.
They were the sounds of a symphony concert being given somewhere in the city.
Why not a new symphony or opera?
In the room behind her, the sounds of a symphony of her grandfather’s time were coming from the radio.
You don’t break into grocery stores after dark and you don’t pick your fellow’s pockets to buy classical symphonies or fishing tackle, but if it’s to get stinking drunk and forget-you do.
She hunted for symphony concerts and twisted the dial rapidly past whenever she caught the raucous syllables of a news broadcast; she did not want any news from the city.
That shining vision which they talk about as belonging to the authors of symphonies and novels-what do they think is the driving faculty of men who discover how to use oil, how to run a mine, how to build an electric motor?
It was a symphony of triumph.
Whether it’s a symphony or a coal mine, all work is an act of creating and comes from the same source: from an inviolate capacity to see through one’s own eyes-which means: the capacity to perform a rational identification —which means: the capacity to sew, to connect and to make what had not been seen, connected and made before.
…were being written, here, in his small cottage on a ledge of the valley, when all this prodigal magnificence of sound was being shaped by him as a flowing monument to a concept which equates the sense of life with the sense of beauty-while she had walked through the streets of New York in a hopeless quest for some form of enjoyment, with the screeches of a modern symphony running after her, as if spit by the infected throat of a loud-speaker coughing its malicious hatred of existence.
In the silence, the music of the radio symphony went on, and the rhythm of the chords reached her like the slow, solemn pounding of steps, while she struggled to see at once the whole progression of twelve years: the tortured boy who called for help on her breasts-the man who sat on the floor of a drawing room, playing marbles and laughing at the destruction of great industries-the man who cried, "My love, I can’t!" while refusing to help her-the man who drank a toast, in the dim booth…
"Ladies and gentlemen," said the panic-pregnant voice of a radio announcer, breaking off the chords of the symphony, "we interrupt this broadcast to bring you a special news bulletin.
There are no more uses of "symphony" in the book.
Show samples from other sources
We heard the Vienna Symphony.
The Seasons are what a symphony ought to be: four perfect movements in harmony with each other.