“We all end in the ocean. We all start in the streams. We’re all carried along, by the river of dreams.”

My songs are like my kids.

There’s nothing better than good sex. But bad sex? A peanut butter and jelly sandwich is better than bad sex.

Don’t go changing, to try and please me You never let me down before.

Remember how I found you there alone in your electric chair, I told you dirty jokes until you smiled.

It’s alright, you can afford to lose a day or two

You may never understand How the stranger is inspired For he is not always evil, And he is not always wrong.

Videos destroyed the vitality of rock and roll. Before that, music said, “Listen to me.” Now it says, “Look at me.”

There’s a deep-seated paranoia that Americans have about not being Americans or something.

And you know that when the truth is told that you can get what you want or you can just get old.

Musicians want to be the loud voice for so many quiet hearts.

I don’t know why people thought I was retiring.

Historically, musicians know what it is like to be outside the norm – walking the high wire without a safety net. Our experience is not so different from those who march to the beat of different drummers.

I don’t belong in limos or private jets or on stage with people cheering me but that’s what’s kept me grounded because I know it’s not right.

Call me a joker, call me a fool, right at this moment I’m totally cool.

You’ve got to be hard, like the rock in that old rock & roll.

We’re only human, we’re supposed to make mistakes.

Have we come all this way, I wondered, only to be dismantled by our own technologies, to be betrayed by political connivance or the impersonal avarice of a corporation?

River is time in water; as it came, still so it flows, yet never is the same.

We have forgotten how to be good guests, how to walk lightly on the earth as its other creatures do.

A river of images and thoughts and feelings, dirtied and polluted so that no one could drink from it without gagging.

To put your hands in a river is to feel the chords that bind the earth together.

The single sculler, alone on the river at dawn, or spotlighted in his lane during a race, is th emost romantic, the most quixotic figure in all rowing.

Nothing matters at all. Survival is the coin of the realm. Time is a river with banks.

Fain would I glide down a gentle river, but I am carried away by a torrent.