“That whole period weighed on me to such an extent that I even began to think it was all tied in with the idea of original sin. Even though my mum had christened me as a Catholic, we weren’t brought up Catholic, so I didn’t buy into the concept of original sin on a day-to-day basis. It’s really very depressing to think that you were born a loser.”

“‘Maxwell’s Silver Hammer’ was my analogy for when something goes wrong out of the blue, as it so often does, as I was beginning to find out at that time in my life.”

Q: What scares you?

McCARTNEY: I suppose the way you can’t nail life down. You grow up thinking that if you learn enough stuff and get the right education then you’ll be able to nail life. I’ll know what’s going on. One thing you discover is that the goalposts are always changing. The rules change. The world changes. When that happens, you realize you still don’t have a clue. And it shocks you. You think, “I don’t have the information I need to deal with this.” That scares me.

“It’s rather serious — life. And you can’t live as if you have nine lives. I find myself doing that often. I think everybody does, saying in his mind, ‘I’ll get it tomorrow.’ But I can’t do that anymore. Take One with the Beatles should have been like I said, with a puff of smoke and magic robes and envelopes. But we missed Take One, so now we do Take Two. And in the disappointment of Take Two — I feel I can always find something good in the bad — the good thing is that it really has made me come to terms more with my life.”

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven / All good children go to heaven

“I sort of think the universe is basically benevolent and we fuck it up”

MICHEL LAVERDIÈRE:. A few years ago, when you were approached to write the Liverpool Oratorio, were you afraid because it was such a huge thing…?

PAUL McCARTNEY: No. It’s strange but I have a kind of primitive kind of innocence, because I love music so much. Then anyone asks me to do anything with music, I say: “Yes, OK, sure.” And even if I’ve never done it before. I mean, if you come to me now and say: “I like to do something with a Romanian Choir.” I would definitely agree: “Yeah, we can do that.”

Justin DeVilleneuve, manager of sixties super model Twiggy and close McCartney friend, recalls the climate at Abbey Road during those days [making the White Album]. "The strange thing was that when they were all together they went peculiar, as if an invisible barrier had fallen. Paul, my pal, blanked me completely; Ringo looked elsewhere; George gave me a long stare; John was the one I didn't know well - we were only nodding acquaintances - so I couldn't speak to him. After ten minutes talking to myself, I turned round, calling them 'fucking Scouse gits,' or words to that effect, and stormed out of the studio. Footsteps behind me. It was John. He put his arms around my shoulders. 'Sorry, Justin, we're a bunch of eyes fronts,' but he didn't say 'eyes fronts' if you get my gist... The mad thing is, when I met Paul next he behaved as if nothing had happened. Weird. Together they were weird."

“What did [The Beatles] talk about?” people kept asking me. They still do today. “Everything” is the answer. The Beatles were inquisitive. They wanted to know stuff. Snobs, convinced that they could have nothing to say, even asked, “What on earth do they talk about?” Well, here’s an example. John had been reading a book about Carl Jung and got really interested, so we found ourselves comparing the Jungian interpretation of dreams with the Freudian interpretation of dreams. Another day it was the writing of Christopher Marlowe. Really, the main thing was the ceaseless inquiring. “I wonder what kind of music Beethoven wrote for himself instead of for his patron,” George asked once. “Do you think he had secret music for himself?”

- Victor Spinetti, Up Front…: His Strictly Confidential Autobiography

With both men and women, close friends and mere acquaintances, George had this interesting habit of moving in at extremely close quarters when he was opening even the most casual of small-talk conversations. He would stand face-to-face, eye-to-eye, often no more than a few centimetres from the other person, and he would talk ever so quietly which gave onlookers the distinct impression that he was sharing some secret information of great significance that required total confidentiality. He was more likely to be talking about his newest guitar or the next car he'd like to buy.

Paul McCartney, speaking in 1980. All You Need Is Love, Peter Brown and Steven Gaines (2024)