Lying in one of two twin hammocks on an English lawn in June. A glass of something cool and vinous is balanced on my tummy. A speaker hanging above the tree plays Glenn Gould. A Wodehouse novel is spread-eagled on my chest. I will pick it up in a moment. Oh, the other hammock is occupied by my beloved husband.

I’m walking down a street in New York, the sun is shining, I’m on my way to see friends who are chosen family—and I’ve just written a couple of pages that I like.

Devouring an egg salad sandwich with the salt, pepper, and mayo in exactly the right proportion.

Being out in a gorgeous natural setting with time to enjoy.

On the Freedom Rides in the year 1961, when I was beaten at the Greyhound bus station in Montgomery, I thought I was going to die. On March 7, 1965, when I was hit in the head with a night stick by a state trooper at the foot of the Edmund Pettus Bridge, I thought I was going to die.

Buying art…. But it makes me happy!

I would come home and ask my mother, my father, my grandparents, my great-grandparents, 'Why?'. And they would say, 'That's the way it is. Don't get in the way, don't get in trouble!'

I never thought that we would fail or that I would fail. I knew from time to time we may make some blunders. We may make some mistakes, but we were not going to fail.

Participating in a transformative movement that advocated human dignity and changed America forever.

My tendency to skip meals.