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When I was 13 or 14, my parents had a bit of a windfall so bought a lovely new kitchen, but I burnt it down. I was making cheese on toast when flames escaped from the grill. My father stopped the fire with blind panic and excessive water. I was forgiven, but it put me off cooking for years.

On Thanksgiving Night, 1942, when I was fifteen years old, white racists burned our house to the ground.

I set our house on fire when I was a little child playing with lighters. Boy, did I burn the place down!

I spent years shaking the damage that comes with being burned by living near someone else's spotlight.

There was mental and physical abuse in my family.

We set the town on fire and burned down every house as a warning to other small towns along the river.

I burned down my backyard as a seven-year-old. I poured kerosene over dried leaves and set the whole place on fire, just for fun. Yeah, not a very normal thing to do.

I hurt my wife, my kids, my mother, my wife's family, my friends, my foundation and kids all around the world who admired me.

If you burn your neighbors house down, it doesn't make your house look any better.