“Do the thing you love to do. Hank Williams died at the ripe old age of twentynine. Stevie Ray Vaughan at thirty-five. Jesus at thirtythree. Don’t think you’re special and the Lord’s gonna bless you with time.”

“You are old Father William,' the young man said, 'and your hair has become very white; and yet you incessantly stand on your head-do you think, at your age, it is right?”

“I’m ALIVE. Thinking about it, noticing it, is new. You do things and don’t watch. Then all of a sudden you look and see what you’re doing and it’s the first time, really.”

“Don’t ever think that just because you do things differently, you’re wrong.”

“That's the thing about people you loved. They disappeared on you. I didn't know much at the ripe old age of fifteen and a half. But, for better or worse, I knew that.”

“So which hand?” Van asked him. “I’m being really nice giving you an option.”“Jesus! You’re gonna break my fucking hand?”“I told you I would. Maybe next time you’ll think twice about hitting a girl.”“You don’t even know what the fuck hap—”“Which hand?” Van growled again. “Five, four, three…”