This land is your land and this land is my land, sure, but the world is run by those that never listen to music anyway.

And I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinking.

If you wanted to, it would be easy to find some crappy lyrics [of Bob Dylan] from the Eighties to undermine the Nobel Prize.

As he weeps to wicked birds of prey, who pick up on his bread crumb sins, and there are no sins inside the Gates of Eden.

Love is all there is, it makes the world go around. Love and only love, it can't be denied.

I was lingering out on the pavement. There was a missing person inside of myself and I needed to find him . . . I felt done for, an empty burned-out wreck . . . Wherever I am, I'm a '60s troubadour, a folk-rock relic, a wordsmith from bygone days, a fictitious head of state from a place nobody knows.

In songs, you have to tell people about something they didn't see and weren't there for, and you have to do it as if you were.