And every true artist is the salvation of every other. But only artists produce for each other the world that is fit to live in.

Let me be candid, my party is full of racists

Let's go to Valhalla with the sun on our faces.

All artists are constantly looking for something and they don't always know what.

This is my genre...the happiness, tragedies, and the sorrows of mankind as realized in the teeming black ghetto.

And it is not necessary to have great things to do. I turn my little omelette in the pan for the love of God.

If you're too open-minded; your brains will fall out.

I would describe my work as expressionist. The expressionist point of view is stressing your own feelings about something.

To worship God in truth is to recognize Him for being who He is, and to recognize ourselves for what we are.

If I don't have anything to do all day, I might not even put my pants on.

We ought not to be weary of doing little things for the love of God, who regards not the greatness of the work, but the love with which it is performed.

Women do amazing, creative, wonderful things.

And a weak person will find it easier to take what someone else has earned rather than risk working hard and achieving something on his own.

I don't see teenagers anymore. I see... I see youths. Slumped S shapes in their hoodies, all huddled round a bin of burning grannies. All texting eachother because they've given up on speech.

The terrain is thinner, the vegetation is greener, that's a good sign we're getting close to the coast.

As you grow older, you'll find that you enjoy talking to strangers far more than to your friends.

Beware the ire of the calm.

I love the fact that 35 years later, I still hear my songs on the radio.

Whilst all the land was ringed with bristling arms And flames laid waste our world, All that was left me was a little garden And thou within it, my beloved, my comrade.

[My] career was sputtering until [I] did a 360 and got headed in the right direction.

Tonight I think again of many days that are sacrificed for one night of love. Of the waste and the fruit of the waste, of plenty and of fire. And how painlessly-time.