Waking up after a sleepover at John Waters’s house and finding my sleeping bag isn’t zipped up the same way as when I passed out. Or “President Palin.”

To be so cold that I am not able to sleep.

I never want to go back; I fought so much through my life, that I have to keep going forward.

Getting to the end and thinking that I haven’t laughed enough.

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.

Being a salesgirl in a baby shop where the others said things like, “He’s Jewish, but she’s American.” Also, after college, being a waitress in London, and trying to make change in the old money of shillings and pence.

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.

I haven’t done it yet.

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

Feeling you want someone else’s welfare as much and sometimes more than your own.