One can never be sure whether a very early memory is a real memory or just the recollection of something which you were told happened.

When I was three, my father was three. When I was six, he was six... he needed me to escape from being 50.

My father did not drink beer. He said he didn't like the taste, and I was prepared to accept that I wouldn't like the taste either. So I stuck to bottled cider.

I like to have around me the things I like today, not the things I once liked many years ago.

In my family we've always been into ethical stuff and recycling.

In Sweden, I went to an English school, where there was a mishmash of people from all over the world. Some were diplomatic kids with a lot of money, some were ghetto kids who came up from the suburbs, and I grew up in between. There's a community of second generation immigrants, and I became part of that because I had an American father.

I have been fortunate to be around people that don't believe in misogyny at the workplace or in my family. But of course, it does exist.

My father died five days before I returned to New York. He was only fifty-three years old. My parents and my father's doctor had all decided it was wiser for me to go to South America than to stay home and see Papa waste away. For a long time, I felt an enormous sense of guilt about having left my father's side when he was so sick.