I am lucky to have good Polish skin that doesn't wrinkle so I might be around for a few years yet.

I always ask the booksellers to look at me and recommend a book; 9 out of 10, they get it right; it’s usually a book about someone dysfunctional. To me bookstores are like brothels of imagination, each book is luring me over going, 'Read me, read me'.

Only if you're kind to yourself, can you be kind to others.

Why is that when people become ill and have something wrong with any of their organs, they get sympathy from other people - except when that organ is their brain?

Being a mother is hard and it wasn't a subject I ever studied.

Why, when you have a mental disease, is it always considered an act of imagination? Why is it that every organ in your body can get sick and you get sympathy except the brain?

[With depression] you get a real sense of shame, because your friends go, 'Oh come on, show me the lump, show me the x-rays,' and of course you've got nothing to show.