The crash of its opening chords swept the sights of the streets away from her mind.
The great chords of Halley’s music went on, filling the room, piercing the glass of the windows, streaming out over the city.
The great burst of sound was the opening chords of Halley’s Fourth Concerto.
She tried to think; but the music remained on the edge of her mind and she kept hearing it, in full chords, like the implacable steps of something that could not be stopped…… She shook her head angrily, jerked her hat off and lighted a cigarette.
theme of Halley’s Fifth Concerto for the first time-she knew that she was hearing it now, hearing it rise from the keyboard of a piano, in the clear, sharp chords of someone’s powerful, confident touch.
She heard a piece of music beating in her mind, one she seldom liked to recall: not Halley’s Fifth Concerto, but his Fourth, the cry of a tortured struggle, with the chords of its theme breaking through, like a distant vision to be reached.
She barely listened, she was conscious only of the flow of chords that seemed to play an underscoring harmony for the flow of the smoke curving slowly from her cigarette, for the curving motion of her arm moving the cigarette to her lips once in a while.
It took them a few stunned seconds to grasp it, while the cheerful, thumping chords went goose-stepping through the silence, sounding grotesquely irrelevant, like the mirth of a half-wit.
It had been a struggle without the relief of violence, without the recognition of finding a conscious enemy, with only a deaf wall to batter, a wall of the most effective soundproofing: indifference, that swallowed blows, chords and screams-a battle of silence, for a man who could give to sounds a greater eloquence than they had ever carried-the silence of obscurity, of loneliness, of the nights when some rare orchestra played one of his works and he looked at the darkness, knowing…
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 "chord" in the book.
Show samples from other sources
In her first day learning the guitar, she has learned how to play G major, C major, and D major chords.
My father and I would stay up at night and sing some of the songs together as he attempted to work out the chords on his guitar.