It is a sobering thought that when Mozart was my age, he had been dead for two years.
If, after hearing my songs, just one human being is inspired to say something nasty to a friend, or perhaps to strike a loved one, it will all have been worth the while.
Be it ever so decadent, there's no place like home.
There's ten stuffed heads in my trophy room right now, two game wardens, seven hunters, and a cow.
The reason most folksongs are so atrocious is that they were written by the people.
Once the rockets are up, who cares where they come down?