Life is like a trumpet - if you don't put anything into it, you don't get anything out of it.

A lean, loose-jointed Negro had commenced plunking a guitar beside me while I slept. His clothes were rags; his feet peeped out of his shoes. His face had on it some of the sadness of the ages. As he played, he pressed a knife on the strings of the guitar in a manner popularized by Hawaiian guitarists who used steel bars. The effect was unforgettable.

You've got to appreciate the things that come from the art of the Negro and from the heart of the man farthest down.

Nature was my kindergarten.

In the South of long ago whenever a new man appeared for work in any of the laborers gangs, he would be asked if he could sing. If he could he got the job. The singing of these working men set the rhythm for the work.

With a guitar I would be able to express the things I felt in sounds.

My big ears indicated a talent for music. This thrilled me.