I Have To Be Able To Love

I Focus On The Individual And Not Seeing This Great Big Monster, "the Press."

My Father Belonged To A Commune, And The Food Was Ghastly. My Idea Of Food Hell Is The Salad Cream They'd Pour All Over Bits Of Lettuce, Cucumber And Tomato. It Was Just Disgusting.

When You Split From Someone, It Doesn't Have To Mean That You Don't Love Them Anymore, You Realize That The Period Of That Particular Romance Is Over. One Always Has To Get Out Before One Gets Kicked Out.

Penitentiary Songs Have Been A Love Of Mine For Years. They Are So Wonderful.

I Once Asked My Father What He Wanted Me To Be. To My Horror, He Said, 'sociologist.'