The enemy is subtle, how be it we are so deceived, when truth's in our hearts and we still don't believe.

Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your teeth. You're an idiot babe, it's a wonder that you still know how to breathe.

That's another way of writing a song, of course. Just talking to somebody that ain't there. That's the best way. That's the truest way. Then it just becomes a question of how heroic your speech is. To me, it's something to strive after.

You say you're looking for someone who'll pick you up each time you fall, to gather flowers constantly and to come each time you call, a lover your life and nothing more. But it ain't me, babe.

Take care of all your memories. For you cannot relive them.

I think a poet is anybody who wouldn't call himself a poet.

I was so much older then; I'm younger than that now. From the back pages