A typical Christmas is me shucking oysters. I love them and I always get them in at Christmas.

I don't know any other lifestyle. I get up in the morning and I really do feel that the world is my oyster and I start that way the same as I would if I were preparing to write a song: put a blank piece of paper up on the piano and you go for it.

The first man gets the oyster the second man gets the shell.

Ten percent of the big fish still remain. There are still some blue whales. There are still some krill in Antarctica. There are a few oysters in Chesapeake Bay. Half the coral reefs are still in pretty good shape a jeweled belt around the middle of the planet. There's still time but not a lot to turn things around.

He was a bold man that first ate an oyster.

I will not eat oysters. I want my food dead. Not sick. Not wounded. Dead.

So I was getting into my car and this bloke says to me 'Can you give me a lift?' I said 'Sure you look great the world's your oyster go for it.''

So I was getting into my car and this bloke says to me 'Can you give me a lift?' I said 'Sure you look great the world's your oyster go for it.'

Most of those who make collections of verse or epigram are like men eating cherries or oysters: they choose out the best at first and end by eating all.

Right after 'Raymond' I had a world-is-my-oyster attitude but I found out I don't like oysters. I had this existential emptiness. 'What is my purpose? Who am I?' I had a big identity crisis.

What can be more foolish than to think that all this rare fabric of heaven and earth could come by chance when all the skill of art is not able to make an oyster!

All art is autobiographical. The pearl is the oyster's autobiography.