In my low periods, I wondered what was the point of creating art. For whom? Are we animating God? Are we talking to ourselves? And what was the ultimate goal? To have one's work caged in art's great zoos - the Modern, the Met, the Louvre?

My father's mother was from Liverpool and she had this very beautiful English china. I only wanted to drink my cocoa out of my grandmother's cup and saucer.

Will you pretend you're my boyfriend?

In 1974, when I started working with the material that became Horses, a lot of our great voices had died. We'd lost Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison and Janis Joplin, and people like Robert Kennedy, Martin Luther King and Malcolm X.

If I'm really working on something, writing or painting or really concentrating, I don't even think about brushing my hair.

Those who have suffered understand suffering and therefore extend their hand.

Sometimes I just wanted to raise my hands and stop. But stop what? Maybe just growing up.