The society of whores stuck needles in an image of me.

A gentleman never talks about his tailor.

And I wish that I was made of stone So that I would not have to see A beauty impossible to define A beauty impossible to believe A beauty impossible to endure The blood imparted in little sips The smell of you still on my hands As I bring the cup up to my lips No God up in the sky No devil beneath the sea Could do the job that you did, baby Of bringing me to my knees

I have to be able to see the thing that's going on that I'm writing about, or else it just doesn't make any sense to me.

I'm a kind of hard-wired pessimist. I can't help but see the world in a certain kind of way.

That's what we [outsiders] feel America is really about - the kind of crazed ravings of the Christian right - when it's probably something quite different.

Jesus Christ was the biggest blight on the human race, he was. And all them socialists and communists - second rate Christianity.