Late one Sunday afternoon, my three-year-old granddaughter, out of the blue, took my hand and said she wanted to whisper something to me. Could we go for a ride around the block before we all sat down for dinner? Just the two of us? Holding hands as we walked to and from the car in the driveway: Bliss.

I think you can strive to attain it, but be realistic about the outcome. In the meantime, I find I might be experiencing it through flashes or brief moments in love and art, and at times just being alive.

The absence of fear, and the recognition that we are all on this ship of fools together. We may in fact go to the big ship’s Art Deco bar and have a glass of champagne, toasting our foibles.

A fireplace, a book, and a snowy day, with no possibility of getting into the office.

I hate rich people that feel a need to tell you how hard they had it (“We had the smallest pool on the block”). And I hate poor people that feel a need to puff up their bios so they can better fit in with the rich—you meet a lot of Talented Mr. Ripleys in showbiz.

August 16, 1985. My dad took me and my brothers Andre and Tony to see the Fresh Fest at the Nassau Coliseum, on Long Island. We saw Whodini, the Fat Boys, and Grandmaster Flash. Greatest day of my life. The births of my children were big days, too, but billions of people have children—only 15,000 people saw that show.

I have a child-like fear of being late. I’m a grown man, and I’m scared I’m going to the principal’s office.

Barack Obama—just the balls to think he could be president is gangster. People forget that, when he first announced he was running, most black people were for Hillary Clinton. The only person that was laughed at more for a crazy idea was Noah.