Perfection is a second-rate idea. I would guess, however, that perfected happiness would be joy, the most intricate and mercurial of all sensations. The moment one recognizes joy, it flees. I’m not sure where Proust is going with this line of questioning, and I don’t want to be evasive, so I will say my idea of perfect happiness is the end of economics; we grow like flowers and fly like birds; the lion lays down with the lamb—a ridiculous idea.

A perfect day is when I can sit outside and listen to an audiobook and watch my family walking around.

Being together with the ones I love on a Wednesday afternoon, washing the dishes, taking the garbage to the bin under a gray sky, hearing the distant sounds of children from upstairs, turning around and suddenly looking into the eyes of the one I love. It is the feeling of being alive I’m talking about. And of being in love.

Those times when I feel equilibrium, maximum consciousness, and clarity.

Not at all! I don’t think that you can really choose what people will like, or say, or even remember about you. I mean, my God, probably the Birkin bag will be known. … If I look myself to find out the date of something — and the first thing that pops up is that bloody bag! I think it’ll be “Je T’aime Moi Non Plus,” when I go feet first, that’ll be the tune they’ll play on the television, and then talk about the bag