"Syd was so beautiful with his violet eyes. I only sort of lay beside him, nothing more could be accomplished. Then he had a breakdown and was gone. He hardly spoke. He would just tolerate me because I was so overpowered, so in awe that I didn't really speak either. I only hung around him for two or three weeks just before he flipped and was virtually removed from the group. I knew Syd was wonderful because he wrote such wonderful songs. He didn't have to speak because the fact that he couldn't speak made him who he was: this person who wrote these mysterious songs. I just liked looking at him: he was very pretty. A lot of the time with pop stars, when they open their mouths, it was all completely ruined anyway. So it was perfect that he was like that. My first pop star and it was just wonderful that he didn't speak."

“He was firstly an artist and secondly a musician. If ever he was asked what he did, the reaction would always be 'I'm an artist', never 'I'm a musician.' *”

“Syd was so full of whimsy as well as horrible gas. I swear to God that the early recording sessions of Pink Floyd always smelled like a strange mixture of rotten eggs, rancid cabbage, and crap.”

“And what exactly is a dream, and what exactly is a joke?”

“We feel that in the future, groups are going to have to offer much more than just a pop show. They'll have to offer a well-presented theatre show.”

“If you had said to a young Syd, ‘Look, this is your bargain in life, you know, you’re going to do this fantastic stuff, but it won’t be forever, it’ll be this short period. There’s the dotted line, are you going to sign for this?’ I suspect, maybe, a lot of people would sign for that, for making their mark.”

“I remember the last time we were in the studio that Nick ripped this fart. It was one of the most atrocious things the others had ever smelled in their lives. While Roger and Rick fled in terror, I asked Nick for seconds.”