No reason to get excited,' the thief, he kindly spoke, There are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke.

I never saw myself as a folk singer.

Well, it's hard to stumble And land in some muddy lagoon When it's nine below zero And three o'clock in the afternoon.

Bob Dylan wrote in his elliptical memoir, Chronicles: Volume One, he was washed up in the 1980s, no longer a commercial success, and no longer putting out good work.

They self-inflict punishment on their own broken lives, put their faith in their possessions, in their jobs, or their wives.

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.

Nothing can affect my voice, it's so bad.