Final Bell / Ghost In The Ruins
Final Bell/Ghost in the Ruins is a live album by Savatage, in tribute to the memory of the early departed Criss Oliva. Many of the tracks listed below have since been added to the releases of other albums in the Savatage discography by SPV/Steamhammer Records in 2002. The album's title fulfills a wish of Jon Oliva's to have an album called Ghost in the Ruins, but, the aforementioned track from Streets is not included on the record, with the record instead featuring material from Savatage's earlier works prior to the album. The import version of the album ("Final Bell") shows the track "Criss Intro" as "Guitar Solo" on the track listing.
Read more about Final Bell / Ghost In The Ruins: Track Listing, Track Information, Lineup
Famous quotes containing the words final, bell, ghost and/or ruins:
“The prologues are over. It is a question, now,
Of final belief. So, say that final belief
Must be in a fiction. It is time to choose.”
—Wallace Stevens (1879–1955)
“I can entertain the proposition that life is a metaphor for boxing—for one of those bouts that go on and on, round following round, jabs, missed punches, clinches, nothing determined, again the bell and again and you and your opponent so evenly matched it’s impossible not to see that your opponent is you.... Life is like boxing in many unsettling respects. But boxing is only like boxing.”
—Joyce Carol Oates (b. 1938)
“Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;Mvainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—”
—Edgar Allan Poe (1809–1849)
“But, when nothing subsists from a distant past, after the death of others, after the destruction of objects, only the senses of smell and taste, weaker but more enduring, more intangible, more persistent, more faithful, continue for a long time, like souls, to remember, to wait, to hope, on the ruins of all the rest, to bring without flinching, on their nearly impalpable droplet, the immense edifice of memory.”
—Marcel Proust (1871–1922)