I can say now is that sneaking up on people is a major delight in my old age, but it always has been. A desire, even a need, to shock.

My friends in prison were mostly women more like myself: not historical figures who I did not relate to as peers, but hookers and addicts.

I felt compelled to blow the whistle on the penal system, under the delusion that doing so might result in some change, or at least save a few women from the same fate. Eternally naïve, that's me.

I couldn't stand living in a society that admires the emperor's new clothes, when I see so clearly that he is naked.

At eighty-one, health club-lusting is as close as I'll ever come to getting laid again.

My published works are concrete evidence that I exist.

The only thing I remember writing in prison is a couple of poems for an inmate magazine they did once a year.