The exploitation and superficiality of mainstream America is the object not of [Bob] Dylan's hipster scorn, but of an apocalyptic parable of holy fools and righteous thieves - the kind of imagery that Dylan's later work would explore more fully.

If not for you, winter wouldn't hold no spring, couldn't hear a robin sing. I just wouldn't have a clue, if not for you.

I was sick of the way my lyrics had been extrapolated, their meanings subverted into polemics and that I had been anointed as the Big Bubba of Rebellion, High Priest of Protest, the Duke of Disobedience, Leader of the Freeloaders, Kaiser of Apostasy, Archbishop of Anarchy, the Big Cheese. Horrible titles any way you want to look at it. All code words for Outlaw.

You learn from a conglomeration of the incredible past - whatever experience gotten in any way whatsoever.

The rifleman's stalking the sick and the lame, preacherman seeks the same, who'll get there first is uncertain.

What's money? A man is a success if he gets up in the morning and goes to bed at night and in between does what he wants to do.

How many roads must a man walk down, Before you call him a man? How many seas must a white dove sail, Before she sleeps in the sand? Yes, and how many times must the cannon balls fly, Before they're forever banned?