Deprivation is the mother of poetry.

I wish I could say everything in one word. I hate all the things that can happen between the beginning of a sentence and the end.

Now, I don't want to give you the impression that I'm a great musicologist, but I'm a lot better than what I was described as for a long, long time; you know, people said I only knew three chords when I knew five.

I’ll be marching through the morning, Marching through the night, Moving 'cross the borders Of My Secret Life.

I don't know which side is anybody on any more. I don't really care. There is a moment when we have to transcend the side we're on and understand that we are creatures of a higher order.

Oh the sisters of mercy, they are not departed or gone.

I speak of a clinical depression that is the background of your entire life, a background of anguish and anxiety, a sense that nothing goes well, that pleasure is unavailable and all your strategies collapse.