Every time I get through the work on a book of nonfiction, I say I'll never do it again; it takes so much out of you.

Every part of my body felt electric. My chest ached and my head throbbed with the great terrible limitless possibility of the morning, and when it came, the sky was washed white, everything was new, and I hadn't slept at all.

You invite things to happen. You open the door. You inhale. And if you inhale the chaos, you give the chaos, the chaos gives back.

We are unusual and tragic and alive.

The only thing that everyone needs to look out for is keeping the students reading through high school and thereafter.

But of course there's no logic to San Francisco generally, a city built with putty and pipe cleaners, rubber cement and colored construction paper. It's the work of fairies, elves, happy children with new crayons

I'm interested in the human impact of the giant foot of misplaced government. After all, we encounter it every day.