And the seasons they go 'round and 'round And the painted ponies go up and down We're captive on the carousel of time We can't return we can only look behind From where we came And go round and round and round In the circle game.

I had made all these rules for myself: I'm not writing social commentary, I'm not writing love songs.

I assume there must be some kind of genetic thrust. My two grandmothers were very different, but both of them were frustrated musicians.

Bob [Dylan] is not authentic at all. He's a plagiarist, and his name and voice are fake. Everything about Bob is a deception. We are like night and day, he and I.

Sex sells everything and sex kills.

I used to be monastic, almost. Now I'm like a Tibetan that has discovered hamburgers and television. I'm catching up on Americana.

The bands and the roadies, love 'em and leave 'em. It's pleasure to try 'em, but trouble to keep 'em.