We mothers rock into the heart of the world the melody of peace.

When sleep leaves the body like smoke and man, sated with secrets, drives the overworked nag of quarrel out of its stall, then the fire-breathing union begins anew . . .

World, they have taken the small children like butterflies and thrown them, beating their wings, into the fire--

But silence is where victims dwell.

Instead of a homeland I hold the metamorphoses of the world.

We breathed the air of freedom without knowing the language or any person.

To me, a fairy tale seems to have become reality.

A writer's working hours are his waking hours. He is working as long as he is conscious and frequently when he isn't.

Everybody knows we're big liberals and I was a very outspoken Hillary Clinton supporter, and I still am. It's impossible for us to separate the songs we're writing from what's going on in the world.

You throw batting practice, you warm up pitchers, you sit and cheer. You do whatever you have to do to stay on the team.

Everything flows with much greater ease when people live as one with the present moment.

Change is as good as a rest. It keeps me fresh.

You cannot find, make or understand true friendship without having enemies.

Speech isn't for agony.

Sons or fathers, poor men or rich men, sacred or secular: all are homosexual in their worship of everything phallic.

We didn't have counsellors rushing around every time somebody let off a gun. You just got on with it!

By the year 2000, I want to be the first Latin musician to play on the moon.