In books lies the soul of the whole Past Time: the articulate audible voice of the Past, when the body and material substance of it has altogether vanished like a dream.
Thomas Carlyle
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Killing Me Softly With Her Song
I heard she sang a good song,
I heard she had a style,
And so I came to see her,
To listen for a while . . .
And there she was this young girl,
A stranger to my eyes . . .
Strummin' my pain with her fingers,
Singin' my life with her words,
Killing me softly with her song,
Killing me softly, with her song,
Telling my whole life with her words,
Killing me softly, with her song . . .
I felt all flushed with fever,
Embarrassed by the crowd,
I felt she found my letters,
And read each one aloud . . .
I prayed that she would finish,
But she just kept right on . . .
Strummin' my pain with her fingers,
Singin' my life with her words,
Killing me softly with her song,
Killing me softly, with her song,
Telling my whole life with her words,
Killing me softly, with her song . . .
She sang as if she knew me,
In all my dark despair,
And then she looked right through me,
As if I wasn't there . . .
But she was there, this stranger,
Singing clear and strong . . .
Strummin' my pain with her fingers,
Singin' my life with her words,
Killing me softly with her song,
Killing me softly, with her song,
Telling my whole life with her words,
Killing me softly, with her song . . .
Killing me softly, with her song . . .
Music by Charles Fox
with lyrics by Norman Gimbel , 1973