Look for her not in the valleys below, nor in the temple rooms. For she has gone, gone into the high passes, far beyond this dying moon.

I'm falling apart, one part after another. Falling down on the world like snow. Half of me is already on the ground, watching from below.

I like a strange, wide range of stuff. I like classical music and industrial noise bands. John Waters films and Peanuts cartoons. Barry Manilow and GG Allin. I should have my head examined.

Tom Walls and his cohort are wolves in sheep's clothing who will besmirch the memory of some genuine historic figures by the next full moon.

Precocious talents mature slowly if at all.

The young pines springing up in the corn-fields from year to year are to me a refreshing fact.

It's a little bit silly to pit us all against each other as if we were running a race. Just think about the fact that Richard Burton never won an Oscar.

All you have to do is read the business literature. In the 1930s they were very frightened and they were concerned about how the rising power of the masses was hazardous to industrialists.

It's all a farce, - these tales they tell About the breezes sighing, And moans astir o'er field and dell, Because the year is dying.

If Japan had been near to either England or France, war would have broken out long ago.

I'm like Muhammed Ali. When he said he would knock someone out in the fourth round, he did it.