For a book that is filled with anecdotes, it seems appropriate to begin with an anecdote of my own, and so here it is.

Like many children, I was afraid of clowns. I remember the moment vividly when, as a seven-year-old, I was finally able to articulate the basis of this fear. My grandparents had taken my brother and me to the circus, and since we had arrived early, we were sitting and watching the roustabouts set up the equipment. A clown spotted us and approached me and my brother. As he drew closer, I was able to get a good look at him. He asked us if we wanted to be in a procession during the show with a bunch of other kids, some animals in cages, and – of course – a whole host of clowns. I said no, shrinking back into my seat. He was surprised and looked at my grandparents, asking whether I was sure I didn't want to be part of the fun procession. They smiled and said that I was shy, and the clown retreated, seeking out other children among the early-comers. But I suddenly understood my fear: the clown had a big smile painted on his face, but the real mouth underneath the painted smile wasn't smiling. Clowns could go through a whole performance without ever actually smiling, I realized. Clowns could actually be evil, and you'd never know unless you got up close. And by then it would be too late.