Probably being granted all-access to a Disney theme park with my husband, David, and a group of close friends—and just us—while we wandered and drank tropical tiki drinks. No judgment, no lines, no bad weather, and no hangovers. Oh, and our twins would be there too, but only when they’re happy and meltdown-free. I guess the same would go for David.

Being at one with yourself.

Pizza and wine after performing for a great Saturday-night crowd on Broadway.

Unmade bed surrounded by books, writing utensils, and the dog; a plate of demolished toast with butter on my chest; loved ones puttering not too close but not too far.

Since hostile people still call me a former Playboy Bunny, even at 82, I probably shouldn’t have done that in my youth, even to write an exposé. And since a couple of times they’ve also referred to me as a former CIA agent, because I went to two Soviet-era communist youth festivals, I probably shouldn’t have done that, either. Yet if I hadn’t done both, I might have judged other people by such empty symbols, too.

Sometimes when I’m on a plane, as I often am, the weather is rough and we’re worried about going down. I think: If I hold the hand of the person next to me, I’ll be holding everyone’s hand. Like my dear friend, the late Wilma Mankiller, principal chief of the Cherokee Nation, I want to know: I’m going to the other side of the mountain.

I’ve had cancer three times, but never felt close to death except when I walked between parked cars on my street and a car sped past my nose.

In my 30s, I was staring at a pair of expensive boots in a shop window when the photographer Gordon Parks came up behind me. He instantly understood, because he grew up even poorer than me; he made me buy them on my credit card.

Seeing the future die, from Bobby Kennedy to dear friends.

I behaved badly with two old lovers. Years later, when I took one to lunch to apologise, it made it worse.