I believe in Beatles, I believe my little soul has grown.
Visions of swastikas in my head, plans for everyone. It’s in the Whites of my eyes.
Making love with his ego.
I’ll ruin everything you are, I’ll give you television.
I got a bad migraine that lasted 3 years, and the pills I took made by fingers disappear.
Some make you sing and some make you scream. One makes you wish that you’d never been seen. But there’s a shop on the corner that’s selling papier mache, making bullet-proof faces, Charlie Manson, Cassius Clay. If you want it, boys, get it here, thing.
What I do is I write mainly about very personal and rather lonely feelings, and I explore them in a different way each time. You know, what I do is not terribly intellectual. I’m a pop singer for Christ’s sake. As a person, I’m fairly uncomplicated.
Rebel, rebel, you’ve torn your dress. Rebel, rebel, your face is a mess. Rebel, rebel, how could they know? Hot tramp, I love you so.
I had a fantasy that i’d drift up to Scotland and spend my life as a faux bodhisattua.
Someday, I’m gonna write a poem in a letter; Someday, I’m gonna get that faculty together.
You can’t go on stage and live – it’s false all the way. I can’t stand the premise of going out in jeans and a guitar and looking as real as you can in front of 18,000 people. I mean, it’s not normal!
Pop stars are capable of growing old. Mick Jagger at 50 will be marvelous – a battered old roue – I can just see him. An aging rock star doesn’t have to opt out life. When I’m 50, I’ll prove it...
If you come from art, you’ll always be art.
I really believe that Bob Dylan and others have speeded up the changes. Pacifism has found a voice at last.
My sexual nature is irrelevant. I’m an actor, I play roles, fragments of myself.
I’m bemused by the whole Robbie Williams aspect of British pop. Posh Spice? It all looks like cruise ship entertainment to me.
I’m afraid of Americans; I’m afraid of the world; I’m afraid I can’t help it.
I don’t think I did anything that my contemporaries didn’t; it was just that I was the only one who talked about it. In the Sixties anyone who had a sense of style seemed to be gay. I wanted to indentify with that.
You know, I don’t feel fifty. I feel not a day over forty-nine. It’s incredible. I’m bouncy, I feel bouncy.
Time may change me, but I can’t trace time.