Read incorrectly, that sounds like a threat. No thanks, Vanity Fair !

As far as I can tell, I’ll either succumb to some opportunistic infection, for which I’ve refused antibiotics in advance, or, having similarly declined forced feeding, I’ll starve to death. ... I don’t know how long it takes to die of starvation, or whether it hurts, but I dread it, just as I dread my sons watching me go like that. Because that is what they will remember, their mother reduced to a bag of bones.

From a heart attack at the Kodak Theatre when they announce I won best actor for Terminator 3.

I’d like to die anytime after the age of 90—in my sleep!

Being found out.

Probably Daniel Barenboim. His blend of insane talent, intellect, and profound humanitarianism is one that comes along very, very rarely. I would put Martina Navratilova and Stephen Sondheim in a tie for second.

My laziness. Not in work-related matters, but social laziness. Thank-you letters, organization, that sort of thing.

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.