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We never think that our mothers will die. It was like suddenly an abyss opened at my feet - I was standing on nothing. It was the strangest thing. Her passing away ripped the solidity out of the world.

I feel like I came out of the womb and was punted - there you go, out in the world!

Death borders upon our birth, and our cradle stands in the grave.

It's really sort of morbid, but she said her mother wanted to see me all her life. And when she died, she made just one request: that a picture of me be put into her casket. So somewhere in England, I'm in a casket.

You cry and you scream and you stomp your feet and you shout. You say, 'You know what? I'm giving up, I don't care.' And then you go to bed and you wake up and it's a brand new day, and you pick yourself back up again.

When you really deep down look at it, we go to bed every night, get up every morning, stay here for 70 or 80 years, and then we die.

Instead of joyfully looking forward to my birth, my mother began systematically preparing for her own death. She was fatalistic.

When you're dead, you're dead. That's it.

What's going to happen when I die? I may be buried, or I may be cremated, I may give my body to science. I haven't decided yet.