You've got a deadline. Well, I do, too: death.

I think that any songwriter - and I think that Bob Dylan knows this more than all of us - you don't write the songs anyhow.

We are ugly but we have the music.

I can't run no more with that lawless crowd while the killers in high places say their prayers out loud. But they've summoned, they've summoned up a thundercloud and they're going to hear from me. Ring the bells that still can ring Forget your perfect offering There is a crack in everything That's how the light gets in.

When you're not feeling holy, your loneliness says that you've sinned.

The wars they will be fought again The holy dove be caught again bought and sold and bought again; the dove is never free.

I don't even hate books anymore.