“The media is either our salvation or our death.”

It’s a compulsive need to wreck everything. You might notice there’s a pattern of stripping down and building back up again throughout my life. But I guess that’s how some of us conduct our lives.

It makes me sad when I see artists who come alive when they go onstage, because, gee, I really come alive when I’m home.

I think the only music I didn’t listen to was country and western, and that holds to this day.

I find only freedom in the realms of eccentricity.

Style is about the choices you make to create the aspects of civilization that you wish to uphold.

You can begin really looking for a relationship . . . when you can (appreciate) the whole concept of giving to someone, not just taking.

She asked for my love and I gave her a dangerous mind.

It would be positively boring if minds were in tune.

My sexual nature is irrelevant. I’m an actor, I play roles, fragments of myself.

The moment you know you know you know.

I’m not a prophet or a stone aged man, just a mortal with potential of a superman. I’m living on.

Religion is for people who fear hell, spirituality is for people who have been there.

You would think that a rock star being married to a super-model would be one of the greatest things in the world. It is.

I was always accused of being cold and unfeeling. It was because I was intimidated about touching people.

Fame can take interesting men and thrust mediocrity upon them.

Never bored, so I’ll never get old.

In peace sons bury fathers, but war violates the order of nature, and fathers bury sons.

When my time comes, forget the wrong that I’ve done. Help me leave behind some reasons to be missed.

Life is a movie; death is a photograph.

You are willing to die, you coward, but not to live.

To be willing to die for an idea is to set a rather high price on conjecture.

If it wasn’t for baseball, I’d be in either the penitentiary or the cemetery. I have the same violent temper my father and older brother had. Both died of injuries from street fights in Baltimore, fights begun by flare-ups of their tempers.

To finish is sadness to a writer — a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn’t really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.

His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.