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I’ve been reading more fiction. I’m incredibly lucky that the San Francisco public library, just minutes away on foot, has all the books I’d ever want to read. We have dozens of books at a time. In times like these, I’m not interested in productivity or self help (never was, but they’re increasing distasteful right now. Productivity? In these times??)

I’m interested in stories about humans and societies and hopes and dreams and fears. Love and betrayal and murder and everything. It’s a scary thought that even as careless people rampage about, I wonder if they’ve ever had a moment of care and tenderness, of the sort you feel so much of if you read a lot of fiction.