Gypsy Quotes

With your silhouette when the sunlight dims Into your eyes where the moonlight swims, And your match-book songs and your gypsy hymns, Who among them would try to impress you? -Bob Dylan, "Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands” (1966)

The flamenco of the Gypsy has nothing to do with the flamenco for tourists.

Real flamenco is like sex.

In Amsterdam the water is the mistress and the land the vassal.

throughout the city there are as many canals and drawbridges as bracelets on a Gypsy's bronzed arms.

There's a race of men that don't fit in, A race that can't sit still;

So they break the hearts of kith and kin, And they roam the world at will. They range the field and rove the flood, And they climb the mountain's crest; Their's is the curse of the gypsy blood, And they don't know how to rest.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

I've always seen myself as one of those 'show people.

' My earliest memories are wanting and needing to entertain people, like a gypsy traveler who goes from place to place, city to city, performing for audiences and reaching people.

I move around a lot. Ive lived in a ton of different places - and only for a month or two at a time. I have a deep, rabid curiosity, so I like having a gypsy life.

"Things have a life of their own," the gypsy proclaimed with a harsh accent.

"It's simply a matter of waking up their souls."

My mother was a gypsy, and she had a lot of dark blood in her, and her hair was very, very thick - she couldn't even get a brush through it. So I have been very fortunate. And every time I go to cut it off, hairdressers refuse to do it.

It is impossible to imagine a more complete fusion with nature than that of the Gypsy.

I remember my mother had this deck of cards that her mother had given her and that she passed on to me. It was a gypsy tarot deck that I used to carry everywhere.

Art is an outsider, a gypsy over the face of the earth.

I'm God's messenger from the gypsy tent. And it's the message that's important, not the messenger.

On tour I'm finding out that I am half gypsy, 40% vagabond, and 10 house cat.

I'm the original hunter-down-of-fabulous-things.

Twenty years ago I sat down and decided that I would create a really wonderful image, an unforgettable image. And now I'm kind of stuck with it. It's like when I don't wear my fringy, gypsy stuff, people kind of look at me like, 'What's wrong?

I need to keep traveling, being a gypsy, having experiences and writing about them.

This week, I'm a gypsy. Maybe next week it'll be glitter rock.

When I speak of home, I speak of the place where in default of a better--those I love are gathered together; and if that place where a gypsy's tent, or a barn, I should call it by the same good name notwithstanding.

What is this gypsy passion for separation, this readiness to rush off when we've just met? My head rests in my hands as I realize, looking into the night that no one turning over our letters has yet understood how completely and how deeply faithless we are, which is to say: how true we are to ourselves.

Was it a light only she could see? A gypsy's spell? A mystery?

She had acquired some of his gypsy ways, some of his nonchalance, his bohemian indiscipline. She had swung with him into the disorders of strewn clothes, spilled cigarette ashes, slipping into bed all dressed, falling asleep thus, indolence, timelessness...A region of chaos and moonlight. She liked it there.

If there's one thing I've learned in this life, it's that you never say no to an old gypsy woman with a blind eye and leprous fingernails.

And I remember most of what I know that is good and true and lasting has come not from scholars but from minstrels and gypsies.

Artists make art. Singers sing. Players play. Gypsies travel. Music lights fires everywhere. It's like oxygen!

I was a gypsy, living a carefree life of ponies and tennis.

A gypsy fire is on the hearth, Sign of the carnival of mirth;

Through the dun fields and from the glade Flash merry folk in masquerade, For this is Hallowe'en!

We still name our military helicopter gunships after victims of genocide.

Nobody bats an eyelash about that: Blackhawk. Apache. And Comanche. If the Luftwaffe named its military helicopters Jew and Gypsy, I suppose people would notice.

Gypsy [Rose Lee] is as unique as she is timeless.

Her story is classic Americana, and the strangest rags-to-riches saga you'll ever read; I like to call it Horatio Alger meets Tim Burton.

In the oldest chronicles of the times conserved in Hungary, reports will be found of Gypsy music, but never of any other, either Magyar, Slavic or Jewish.

Gypsy dance is never just to be dancing.

Instead it seems to be a part of an immense and significant non-verbal vocabulary of Gypsy communication and behavior. It is at the heart of an essential transformation, a transcended state, an escape from the realities of their daily lives to a more satisfying state of mind.

The white moth to the closing vine, The bee to the open clover, And the Gypsy blood to the Gypsy blood Ever the wide world over.

When Gypsy was older, after she became Gypsy Rose Lee, I think she was both proud and slightly ashamed of her Seattle roots. She worked very hard to rid her voice of any trace of a local accent, cultivating an affected way of speaking that sounded as if she pinned the ends of her words.

Some words live in my throat breeding like adders.

Others know sun seeking like gypsies over my tongue to explode through my lips

Skylark,Have you seen a valley green with SpringWhere my heart can go a-journeying,Over the shadows in the rainTo a blossom covered lane?And in your lonely flight,Haven't you heard the music in the night,Wonderful music,Faint as a will-o-the-wisp,Crazy as a loon,Sad as a gypsy serenading the moon.