With one exception everybody who has ever been involved with me is still a great friend of mine.

All artists are two-headed calves.

I believe more in the scissors than I do in the pencil.

I love New York, even though it isn't mine, the way something has to be, a tree or a street or a house, something, anyway, that belongs to me because I belong to it.

But there were moments when she played songs that made you wonder where she learned them, where indeed she came from. Harsh-tender wandering tunes with words that smacked of pinewoods or prairie. One went: Don’t wanna sleep, Don’t wanna die, Just wanna go a-travelin’ through the pastures of the sky; and this one seemed to gratify her the most, for often she continued it long after her hair hard dried, after the sun had gone and there were lighted windows in the dusk.

I am always drawn back to places where I have lived, the houses and their neighborhoods.

Most people don't find their creativity. There are more unsung geniuses that don't even know they have great talent.