Moods

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I wake up from dreams and go, 'Wow, put this down on paper. ' The whole thing is strange. You hear the words, everything is right there in front of your face. And you say to yourself, 'I'm sorry, I just didn't write this. It's there already. ' That's why I hate to take credit for the songs I've written. I feel that somewhere, someplace, it's been done and I'm just a courier bringing it into the world. I really believe that. I love what I do. I'm happy at what I do. It's escapism.

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It's no use crying over spilt milk, because all of the forces of the universe were bent on spilling it.

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There's a bit of testicle at the bottom of our most sublime feelings and our purest tenderness.

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I am showing my pupils details of an immense landscape which they cannot possibly know their way around.

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It is odd how a man believes he can think better in a special place. I have such a place, have always had it, but I know it isn't thinking I do there, but feeling and experiencing and remembering. It's a safety place, everyone must have one, although I have never heard of a man tell of it.

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The end of love is a haunting. a haunting of dreams. A haunting of silence. Haunted by ghosts it is easy to become a ghost. Life ebbs. The pulse is too faint. Nothing stirs you. Some people approve of this and call it healing. It is not healing. A dead body feels no pain.

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There's a tear in his eye that refuses to fall.
If it would land on me, that would say it all.

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All pity is self-pity.

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So powerful is the charm of words, which for us reduces to manageable entities all the passions that would otherwise madden and destroy us.

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Pain is pain, and the importance of preventing unnecessary pain and suffering does not diminish because the being that suffers is not a member of our own species.