A Quote by Dennis DeYoung

There are all kinds of pretensions about art, but I'm just a guy who sings for his supper. — © Dennis DeYoung
There are all kinds of pretensions about art, but I'm just a guy who sings for his supper.
I'm just an ordinary, walking-down-the-street, mother of two children who sings for her supper.
Go back and read Sinclair Lewis - It Can't Happen Here or Babbitt. For a guy or girl who's going to do an hour of political comedy, it might be a little rough, sure. But I think if you're spending 10 minutes or less, and you're talking about - not necessarily [Donald Trump] but his supporters and the media coverage, there's all kinds of angles to explore. It doesn't just have to be simply, "This guy is crazy!" It's more about the idea of that kind of guy rising to the prominence he has, to actually become the Republican candidate.
I'm just a really normal, sensitive kind of go-about-my business everyday kinda guy. People see the tattoos, and they either read things or they see things and they don't really know that I'm just this guy that gets up and makes coffee in the morning and hangs out with his friends and walks his dog and reads his Bible and goes about his day.
People think of songwriting as a very personal thing: A guy gets up there with an acoustic guitar and he sings his heart out, bares his soul.
These are the kinds of things a guy thinks about when he visits his own grave.
I just let the work speak for itself. An actor is not afraid to take risks; to put on different hats; to be a good guy, a bad guy, a victim, an abuser. There are all kinds of people in the world, and playing them is what acting is all about.
The novel can't compete with cars, the movies, television, and liquor. A guy who's had a good feed and tanked up on good wine gives his old lady a kiss after supper and his day is over. Finished.
I'm just a guy that sings songs because that's what he likes to do, I guess.
I'm the guy who will persist in his path. I'm the guy who will make you laugh. I'm the guy who strives to be open. I'm the guy who's been heartbroken. I'm the guy who has been on his own, and I'm the guy who's felt alone. I'm the guy who holds your hand, and I'm the guy who will stand up and be a man. I'm the guy who tries to make things better. I'm the guy who's the whitest half Cuban ever. I'm the guy who's lost more than he's won. I'm the guy who's turn, but never spun. I'm the guy you couldn't see. I'm that guy, and that guy is me.
With no pretensions of art, Viva Las Vegas, the new Elvis Presley vehicle, is about as pleasant and unimportant as a Banana Split.
There are two different kinds of spectacular fighters. One is a subtle counter puncher who shows the work like chess. It's kind of an art, sports art. The other kind is when a guy has blood on all his body. That's a second kind of spectacular fighter, and people enjoy both. Both kind of fighters need to be respected.
I'm still the same guy who gets in front of the mic and just sings.
anyone who sings about love and harmony and life [john lennon] is dangerous to someone who sings about death and killing and subduing [Nixon]
Much has been said about Robert, and more will be added. Young men will adopt his gait. Young girls will wear white dresses and mourn his curls. He will be condemned and adored. His excesses damned or romanticized. In the end, truth will be found in his work, the corporeal body of the artist. It will not fall away. Man cannot judge it. For art sings of God, and ultimately belongs to him.
The first, that their pretensions to this possession of an art properly so called in their art of speaking are entirely unfounded; and the second, that they are involved in a profound mistake in their confusion of the good with the pleasant.
There's a story... a legend, about a bird that sings just once in its life. From the moment it leaves its nest, it searches for a thorn tree... and never rests until it's found one. And then it sings... more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. And singing, it impales itself on the longest, sharpest thorn. But, as it dies, it rises above its own agony, to outsing the lark and the nightingale. The thorn bird pays its life for just one song, but the whole world stills to listen, and God in his heaven smiles.
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