I lived there, and of course, when I'd get up next day, the only other people still around were the prostitutes. We were good friends, and we'd make breakfasts that I'll never forget. They'd lend me soap. I remember that I'd always run out of soap and they'd lend it to me. And that's where I finished writing Leaf Storm.
For a long time I wasn't listening to music, to the rock and roll stuff on the radio, because it would cause me to get sweaty. It would bring back memories I didn't want to know about, or I would get that feeling that I'm not alive'cause I'm not making it. And if it was good, I hated it'cause I wasn't doing it. And if it was bad, I was furious'cause I could've done it better.
They want to hold onto something they never had in the first place. Anybody who claims to have some interest in me as an individual artist or even as part of the Beatles has absolutely misunderstood everything I ever said if they can't see why I'm with Yoko. And if they can't see that, they don't see anything. They're just jacking off to, it could be anybody. Mick Jagger or somebody else. Let them go jack off to Mick Jagger, okay? I don't need it.
I'm totally anti-nostalgia; I never listen to old Rolling Stones records. I'm not really interested in them. They're funny, sometimes, to hear.
I never had the chance to do the fun things kids do: sleepovers, parties, trick-or-treat. There was no Christmas, no holiday celebrating. So now you try to compensate for some of that loss.
I started, actually, to make my first animated cartoon in 1920. Of course, they were very crude things then and I used sort of little puppet things.
There were times when I had great times with my brothers, pillow fights and things, but I was, used to always cry from loneliness.
Nothing impressed me more than a story of a black mysterious picture, which used to hang in one of the chambers of the Province House, directly above the room where we were now sitting.
I'm not sure whether I had already read Faulkner or not, but I know now that only a technique like Faulkner's could have enabled me to write down what I was seeing. The atmosphere, the decadence, the heat in the village were roughly the same as what I had felt in Faulkner.
I never will forget one night very late. It was around midnight, the telephone started ringing and I picked it up. On the other end was an ugly voice. That voice said to me, in substance, "Nigger, we are tired of you and your mess now. And if you aren't out of this town in three days, we're going to blow your brains out and blow up your house." I'd heard these things before, but for some reason that night it got to me.