[There are] people who are bitten by this particular bug, where meaning has evaporated and significance has dissolved. Many people now confess to me that they inhabit this kind of landscape, where nothing has much taste. I mean, they’re not selling fifty million Prozac pills a week for nothing; we are undergoing some kind of nervous breakdown. And it’s from the point of view of the nervous breakdown and beyond that the song is written.
The Loneliness of the Long-Suffering Folkie by Wayne Robins. Newsday: November 22, 1992.