Just slip out the back, Jack, make a new plan, Stan, you don't need to be coy, Roy, just get yourself free. Hop on the bus, Gus, you don't need to discuss much, just drop off the key, Lee, and get yourself free.

The leaves that are green turn to brown. And they wither with the wind. And they crumble in your hand.

It was the year of the Beatles, it was the year of the Stones, it was 1964.

My life so common it disappears and sometimes even music cannot substitute for tears.

I don't very often think I've done a good job. I don't like the majority of what I do. I shouldn't say I don't like it, but I'm not satisfied with almost everything that I do.

Being an artist doesn't mean that you're a good artist. That was the bargain I first made with myself: I'd say, I'm an artist, but I'm not really very good.

I won't disturb the slumber of feelings that have died. If I never loved I never would have cried...I am a rock.