Much has been said about Robert, and more will be added. Young men will adopt his gait. Young girls will wear white dresses and mourn his curls. He will be condemned and adored. His excesses damned or romanticized. In the end, truth will be found in his work, the corporeal body of the artist. It will not fall away. Man cannot judge it. For art sings of God, and ultimately belongs to him.

Good press, bad press, whatever, only means a lot to me if it's writ by somebody I respect, by somebody I like.

I understood that in this small space of time we had mutually surrendered our loneliness and replaced it with trust.

John Coltrane, he talks to god. He starts playing his solo, he might play for 14 minutes. For 14 minutes, it seems like he's talking to god, but he always takes a hold of the melody.

Should I pursue a path so twisted? Should I crawl defeated and gifted?

We never had any children," he said ruefully. "Our work was our children.

I wasn't taking drugs or drinking. I was working and working and working. But I wasn't writing anything.