As usual, there is a great woman behind every idiot.

I'm a freakin' artist, man, not a (expletive) race horse.

I'm a moldy moldy man I'm moldy thru and thru I'm a moldy moldy man You would not think it true I'm moldy til my eyeballs I'm moldy til my toe I will not dance I shyballs I'm such a humble Joe.

In Baby You're A Rich Man the point was, stop moaning, you're a rich man and we're all rich, heh heh, baby!

It came in a vision - a man appeared on a flaming pie and said unto them, 'From this day forward you are Beatles with an A.' Thank you Mister Man, they said, thanking him.

Don't believe that jazz about there's nothing you can do, “turn on and drop out, man” - because you've got to turn on and drop in, or they're going to drop all over you.

If art were to redeem man, it could do so only by saving him from the seriousness of life and restoring him to an unexpected boyishness.