When I die, I want to go to sleep peacefully like my grandfather. Not screaming in terror, like the passengers in his car.
That’s one of the worst things about getting old. That people allow themselves to die before you.
I was mortified that she disappeared before me, sitting at her writing desk, surrounded by classical music. A cerut in hand and a glass of whisky within reach.
If you don’t find a way to make money while you sleep, you will work until you die.
An amazing breathlessness arises because we fill our lives with emptiness and Facebook. In a discussion about the empty calories of Facebook, someone close to me said with great seriousness: “I have 190 friends on Facebook.” Then I replied: “Yes, but hardly one of them will pick up your coffin the day you leave here.” Why not use the time for some fewer and real friends in the real world.
At my age, you think about the afterlife. I’m mostly inclined to think there’s nothing there, but sometimes I can’t help but let my imagination run wild. My good friend Ulla Steen says she believes that all of us who like each other meet in the big angel bar where we are expected. I see myself arriving at the angel bar, and there’s my father, my husband and my son, and one of them says: “There’s Lise. Now we are four again for a l’hombre.