“You have to forget about what other people say, when you’re supposed to die, or when you’re supposed to be loving. You have to forget about all these things.”

Please pass me the peace weed, and take some heed. Throw away all that mixed up speed.

I wouldn’t say that I’m the greatest guitarist ever. I’d say probably that I’m the greatest guitarist sitting in this chair.

May I love you away from the evils of today to the dreams of tomorrow, you know heaven has no sorrow.

So you want to be married, oh baby, trying to put me on a chain, ain’t that some shame? You must be losing your weak little mind.

If I live by illusions, you live by excuses.

You’ve got to know much more than the mere technicalities of notes. You’ve got to know sounds and what goes between the notes.

I want to thank you my sweet darling for digging in the mud and picking me up.

I have to get involved in my own kind of way ’cause I always want to respect my own judgments. I have to respect my own time.

Be respected as being new, and probably a decent change or a help for the human race or whatever, instead of keep carrying the same old burdens around with you.

I’ve been imitated so well I’ve heard people copy my mistakes.

Genealogists live in the past lane.

We want our sound to go into the soul of the audience, and see if it can awaken some little thing in their minds. ‘Cause there are so many sleeping people.

Sometimes you want to give up the guitar, you’ll hate the guitar. But if you stick with it, you’re gonna be rewarded.

The story of love is hello and goodbye, until we meet again.

When I’m sad, she comes to me with a thousand smiles.

Don’t use your brain to play it, let your feelings guide your fingers.

Death is the easiest of all things after it, and the hardest of all things before it.

A man may hate cruelty and lies, but if he’s never given an opportunity to show what he’s made of, no one will remember him when he dies.

Cursed is the man who dies, but the evil done by him survives.

For books are more than books, they are the life, the very heart and core of ages past, the reason why men worked and died, the essence and quintessence of their lives.

Every man is born as many men and dies as a single one.

Excess of grief for the dead is madness; for it is an injury to the living, and the dead know it not.

The life of the dead is placed on the memories of the living. The love you gave in life keeps people alive beyond their time. Anyone who was given love will always live on in another’s heart.

For the whole life of a philosopher is, as the same philosopher says, a meditation on death.