With a guitar I would be able to express the things I felt in sounds. — William Christopher Handy Copy Share Image
If my serenade of song and story should serve as a pillow for some composer's head, as yet perhaps unborn, to dream… — William Christopher Handy Copy Share Image
Whenever I heard the song of a bird and the answering call of its mate, I could visualize the notes in scale,… — William Christopher Handy Copy Share Image
A lean, loose-jointed Negro had commenced plunking a guitar beside me while I slept. His clothes were rags; his feet peeped out… — William Christopher Handy Copy Share Image
My big ears indicated a talent for music. This thrilled me. — William Christopher Handy Copy Share Image
With a guitar I would be able to express the things I felt in sounds. — William Christopher Handy Copy Share Image
Life is like a trumpet - if you don't put anything into it, you don't get anything out of it. — William Christopher Handy Copy Share Image
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… — William Christopher Handy Copy Share Image
I knew the whistle of each of the river boats on the Tennessee. — William Christopher Handy Copy Share Image
In the South of long ago whenever a new man appeared for work in any of the laborers gangs, he would be asked if… — William Christopher Handy Copy Share Image
You've got to appreciate the things that come from the art of the Negro and from the heart of the man farthest down. — William Christopher Handy Copy Share Image
Whenever I heard the song of a bird and the answering call of its mate, I could visualize the notes in scale, all built… — William Christopher Handy Copy Share Image
The name of my ailment was longing, and it was not cured till I finally went to the department store and counted out the… — William Christopher Handy Copy Share Image
You can never tell what's in a woman's mind, And if she's from Harlem, there's no use o' tryin — William Christopher Handy Copy Share Image
Where the Tennessee River, like a silver snake, winds her way through the clay hills of Alabama, sits high on these hills, my home… — William Christopher Handy Copy Share Image
