“All has not been said and never will be.”

Better hope deferred than none.

All mankind is us, whether we like it or not.

Any fool can turn a blind eye but who knows what the ostrich sees in the sand.

To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.

Words and images run riot in my head, pursuing, flying, clashing, merging, endlessly. But beyond this tumult there is a great calm, and a great indifference, never really to be troubled by anything again.

There’s never an end for the sea.

My mistakes are my life.

There’s something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head.

Words are the clothes thoughts wear.

I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.

What are we doing here, that is the question.

I am still alive then. That may come in useful.

I gave up before birth.

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.

Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits.

Fail, fail again, fail better.

The face of the night will be an old wound that reopens each evening, impassive and living. The distant silence will ache like a soul, mute, in the dark. We’ll speak to the night as it’s whispering softly.

Bore, n. A person who talks when you wish him to listen.

No, I’m not talking about the Russians; I mean the Germans. In spite of everything, to have pushed so far!

I try my best to mean what I say. But it seems to be that my words are too big for my voice to speak.

God is speaking to all of us, all the time. The question is not, to whom does God talk? The question is, who listens?

Language creates reality. Words have power. Speak always to create joy.

If we feel inwardly strong, we will have no need or desire to speak ill of others.

I started singing before I started talking. And that’s the God’s honest truth. I think it was something that I’ve always loved to do, even if I wasn’t good at it. I just loved ballads.