“When you got a job to do, you got to do it well. You gotta give the other fellow hell.”

I have not practiced how to be a singer without an instrument.

Being in the audience actually looks like quite a lot of fun.

Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you, Tomorrow I’ll miss you.

It’s also not unusual for writers to look backward. Because that’s your pool of resources.

I believe that in the future meditation could be as commonplace in schools and society as eco-awareness is now. It interests me that an ancient cure may be the solution to a modern problem.

What I have to say is all in the music. If I want to say anything, I write a song.

A lot of artists use memories. A lot of prose writers, a lot of poets, a lot of songwriters, refer back to something. Generally it’s all you’ve got, unless you’re brilliant and can write totally in the now.

The good Lord made this world and everything that’s in it. The way I see it, baby, you got to love it to the limit.

I still believe that love is all you need. I don’t know a better message than that.

It’s a lifelong gift, something you can call on at any time.

A hundred years from now, people will listen to the music of the Beatles the same way we listen to Mozart.

I like most kinds of music. So I haven’t got a bag, as they say. Except the big black one in the hall outside.

When I see bacon, I see a pig, I see a little friend, and that’s why I can’t eat it. Simple as that.

The best thing I ever saw was a man who loved his wife.

Trumpets are a bit more adventurous; they’re drunk! Trumpeters are generally drunk. It wets their whistle.

I’m only 49 years old. I’m still in the middle of this whole thing. I don’t feel like it’s finished at all. I’m still planning to write better songs.

And that the pastor’s sermons, however dull they might seem at the time of taking, yet had a voodooistic power which ‘did a fellow good– kept him in touch with Higher Things.

The fellow that agrees with everything you say is either a fool or he is getting ready to skin you.

Get it into your head once and for all, my simple and very fainthearted fellow, that what fools call humanness is nothing but a weakness born of fear and egoism; that this chimerical virtue, enslaving only weak men, is unknown to those whose character is formed by stoicism, courage, and philosophy.

Each one of us is alone in the world. He is shut in a tower of brass, and can communicate with his fellows only by signs, and the signs have no common value, so that their sense is vague and uncertain.

Sometimes this fellow’s music was like little colored pieces of crystal candy, and other times it was the softest, saddest thing she had ever imagined about.

I decided that I wanted nothing to do with South African government television while any of my fellow writers were banned and couldn’t speak publicly.

But it may be that the way of life that he has chosen for himself and the peculiar strength and sweetness of his character may have an ever-growing influence over his fellow men so that, long after his death perhaps, it may be realized that there lived in this age a very remarkable creature.

We seek pitifully to convey to others the treasures of our heart, but they have not the power to accept them, and so we go lonely, side by side but not together, unable to know our fellows and unknown by them.