I just don't do anything fun anymore. But, that's dying, isn't it? I mean, you die in stages, right? You let things go in pieces.

Scotland is a great nation, but its horses are very uncomfortable.

They think I'm crazy and maybe I am. But maybe I'm a genius.

I don't think the audience always listens to the critics. That's been proven time and time again.

Aye, fight and you may die. Run, and you'll live…at least a while. And dying in your beds, many years from now, would you be willing' to trade all the days, from this day to that, for one chance, just one chance, to come back here and tell our enemies that they may take our lives, but they'll never take…OUR FREEDOM?!

What I need to do to heal myself and to be assuring and allay the fears of others and to heal them, if they had any heart wounds from something I may have said.

My whole approach to wardrobe is, throw it in a suitcase and make sure they don't press it, for Pete's sake, so I can try to display some rumpled charm. Actually, I'm just a pig. I've got coffee stains on my pants. I think they're coffee stains, anyway.