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“You know you haven't stopped talking since I came here? You must have been vaccinated with a phonograph needle.”
― Groucho Marx

“I told [John Kruesi] I was going to record talking, and then have the machine talk back. He thought it absurd. However, it was finished, the foil was put on; I then shouted 'Mary had a little lamb', etc. I adjusted the reproducer, and the machine reproduced it perfectly.

[On first words spoken on a phonograph.]”
― Thomas A. Edison

“He shook hands. With greening faces, with eyes full of sparks, his two friends leaned upon their canes. One had on a crushed bowler (why?)... Both were weary. Both knew that what was approaching was the end. Both had spent the day in their offices and when they interrupted their work with an indiscreet nod, when they turned the conversation toward that end, both broke in "Lord, we have strayed from our business." And ever deeper sunk their eyes, a deathly shadow was descending. The words of his friends had been bought with blood, but they were stolen. Someone, listening, recorded them on a phonograph and thousands of cylinders began to twang. A new enterprise opened, on sale a bronze throat, a screaming cavity; an experienced mechanic installed the throat phonograph. The purchased throat squealed day and night and his friends grew exhausted and one day he said to them both "Lord, I am going." He grinned. And they grinned: they understood everything. Now they stood on the platform, stood with him and saw him off. Someone long and dark with the face of an ox, shoulders crooked as a sorrowful cemetery cross and wrapped up in a frock-coat, swept into the coach. And then the bell rang, and then they waved their bowlers; three wooden arms swung in the air.

("Adam")”
― Andrey Bely, Silver Age of Russian Culture

“Oh! The melancholy, the fantastic melancholy of that
invention that freezes sounds, just as Francois Rabelais had so clownishly imagined! Was it necessary that, no sooner born, the most seductive of discoveries, which fixes in life life's most ephemeral voices, should enter into the service of death?”
― Maurice Renard, Hands of Orlac