Chasing Amy Quotes

People are their most beautiful when they are laughing, crying, dancing, playing, telling the truth, and being chased in a fun way.

I WOULD RATHER BE NUMB THAN STAND HERE IN THE LIGHT OF A SUN THAT CAN NEVER CHASE THE CHILL AWAY.

The thing about Magellan is the thing about all these explorers. Most of the time, they’re just determined to chase impossible things. And most of them are so busy looking at the horizon that they can’t even see what’s right in front of them.

He can’t take his eyes off the stars, but I can’t take mine off his face.

Before this moment, I have never wished to be something other than what I am. Never felt so keenly the lack of hands with which to touch, the lack of arms with which to hold. Why did they give me this sense of self? Why allow me the intellect by which to measure this complete inadequacy? I would rather be numb than stand here in the light of a sun that can never chase the chill away

See? The moment you quit chasing him, that’s when he wants you. He looks jealous. He thinks he’s been replaced.

God. No wonder it was so easy. He’s been bleeding since he was a baby. He just never told anyone. How do you even know it hurts after all that time?” Because you loved me, and I knew what it meant to feel.

All of my lower-middle-class Boston issues rose to the surface. I don’t like it when bratty, privileged old white guys speak to me like I am their mouthy niece. I got that amazing feeling you get when you know you are going to lose it in the best, most self-righteous way. I just leaned back and yelled, “FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK YOU.” Then I chased him as he tried to get away from me.

Miracles do not belong to religions. Miracles belong to the desperate, which is why every religion, every philosophy, and most importantly, every fairy tale always has a moment of salvation, a eureka, an enlightenment. We are all chasing and chasing tails, running and running in circles, until a wolf or the witch or the stepmother jumps out and trips us, and we fall flat, splat, and we lie bare and bleeding and breathless and finally, finally look and see whatever it is---salvation or eureka or enlightenment or a hunter or prince or a glass slipper---in front of us. And that's what miracles are. Not solutions, but catalysts. Not answers, but chances.

I felt foolish and tired, as if I had been running to escape someone chasing me, only to look behind to discover there was no one there.

You’ve ruined me,” she repeats, her voice quieting a little as it catches. “You’ve ruined me—you made me wake up. And now I can’t get rid of you.” Her voice surges again as I reach out, curling my hand around her arm, her skin flushed hot under my fingers. “You won’t leave me alone.

He watched in awe as she stacked up an enormous armload of music. "There," she finished, slapping Frank Zappa's Greatest Hits on top of the pile. "That should do for a start." "You are a music lover," said the wide-eyed cashier. "No, I'm a kleptomaniac." And she dashed out the door. He was so utterly shocked that it took him a moment to run after her. With a meaningful nod in the direction of the astounded Cahills, she barreled down the cobblestone street with her load. "Fermati!" shouted the cashier, scrambling in breathless pursuit. Nellie let a few CDs drop and watched with satisfaction over her shoulder as the clerk stopped to pick them up. The trick would be to keep the chase going just long enough for Amy and Dan to search Disco Volante. Yikes, she reflected suddenly, I'm starting to think like a Cahill.... And if she was nuts enough to hang around this family, it was only going to get worse.

Smoke is not chasing me and making my eyes sweat. My eyes are not burning. I am not crying. I am not standing behind my mother and she is not facing the wall and she is not saying, 'Smoke follows beauty.' Smoke follows beauty. Smoke follows beauty. Smoke follows beauty.

Watching the way he treats you made me realize that maybe I had set my sights too low. After chasing someone who didn’t give me the time of day… I just see how Vincent anticipates your every desire and tries to make it come true for you. How, when he sees you walk into a room, it’s like he’s transformed into this person who is bigger and better than the one he was just minutes before. I want to be that for someone. I think I deserve it. And I’m not going to pine away for a guy who feels that for someone else. So until my own chivalrous knight shows up, I’ve decided to live a full life and be happy with my lot.

Now about this turtle. I think I’m gonna name it Oliver.” “Why’s that?” “Because he’s leaving little turtle poop ‘Oliver’ his terrarium.

That night Tommy kissed him and eased his way into Chase’s body so gently that when Chase came, his vision washed in white, not red, and it did for him what sex with Tommy always did for him: set him free and let him fly.

Sleep and I do not have a good relationship. We have never been good friends. I am constantly chasing sleep and then pushing it away. A good night's sleep is my white whale. Like Ahab, I am also a total drama queen about it. I love to talk about how little sleep I get. I brag about it, as if it is a true indication of how hard I work. But I truly suffer at night. Bedtime is fraught with fear and disappointment. When it is just me alone with my restless body and mind, I feel like the whole world is asleep and gone. It's very lonely. I am tired of being tired and talking about how tired I am.

Looking silly can be very powerful. People who are committing and taking risks become the king and queen of my prom. People are their most beautiful when they are laughing, crying, dancing, playing, telling the truth and being chased in a fun way.

She's gazing down at me, Stone-faced Chase, absolutely unforgiving, soot and ashes streaking her face like war paint.

He pressed his lips to Akira’s ear. “Hold on, lass, for hell has just made chase.

So, he, uhm, all ac/ac, or a little ac/dc?" she asked, blushing, and Chase's grin about swallowed his face. "He claims to be ac/dc," he said, watching her face light up completely.

You think I want to be here with you?" I reply, my voice hoarse. "You think if you walked out right now, I'd chase you?" She gazes back at me, her eyes a challenge. "Wouldn't you?" "You know I would," I snap, surrendering. "And I have no idea why that's such a problem." She jerks her arm free and backs up a step until she hits the door. "It's a problem because I'd let you!" she blurts. Then, after a harsh breath, she murmurs, "It's a problem because I'd want you to.

I thought this man had long ago drained everything from my heart. But now something strong and bitter flowed and made me feel another emptiness in a place I didn't know was there. I cursed this man aloud so he could hear. You had dog eyes. You jumped and followed whoever called you. Now you chase your own tail.

Bianca, Since you keep running away from me at school, and, if I remember correctly, the sound of my voice causes you to have suicidal thoughts, I decided a letter might be the best way to tell you how I feel. Just hear me out. I’m not going to deny that you were right. Everything you said the other day was true. But my fear of being alone is not the reason I’m pursuing you. I know how cynical you are, and you’re probably going to come up with some snarky reply when you read this, but the truth is, I’m chasing you because I really think I am falling in love with you. You are the first girl who has ever seen right through me. You’re the only girl who has ever called me on my bullshit. You put me in my place, but, at the same time, you understand me better than anyone ever has. You are the only person brave enough to criticize me. Maybe the only person who looks close enough to find my faults—and, clearly, you’ve found many. I called my parents. They’re coming home this weekend to talk to Amy and me. I was afraid to do this at first, but you inspired me. Without you, I never could have done that. I think about you much more than any self-respecting man would like to admit, and I’m insanely jealous of Tucker—something I never thought I’d say. Moving on after you is impossible. No other girl can keep me on my toes the way you can. No one else makes me WANT to embarrass myself by writing sappy letters like this one. Only you. But I know that I’m right, too. I know you’re in love with me, even if you are dating Tucker. You can lie to yourself if you want, but reality is going to catch up with you. I’ll be waiting when it does… whether you like it or not. Love, Wesley p.s.: I know you’re rolling your eyes right now, but I don’t care. Honestly, it’s always been kind of a turn-on.

I’m of the belief that in most industries, women have to work twice as hard to get half the credit. After putting in so much effort to make a good movie, it felt pretty demeaning when they called it a “female comedy.” This meaningless label painted me into a corner and forced me to speak for all females, because I am the actual FEMALE who wrote the FEMALE comedy and then starred as the lead FEMALE in that FEMALE comedy. They don’t ask Seth Rogen to be ALL MEN! They don’t make “men’s comedies.” They don’t ask Ben Stiller, “Hey, Ben, what was your message for all male-kind when you pretended to have diarrhea and chased that ferret in Along Came Polly?

'I don't know why you stuck with me. I just wanted to be worth it, that's all.'

Never chase people. Be you and the right people who belong in your life and deserve a place in your heart will come, find and appreciate you!

Rita has spent her whole life being chased by boys. Because of that, she never had a chance to stop running long enough to figure out who she was and what kind of guy she should let catch her.

The (Anna's Hummingbird) males are deadbeat dads that contribute nothing to making the nest, or to feeding either the female or the nestlings. They are off to find other females they can impress with their deep dives, chasing skills, and commandeering of feeders.

You're the fantasy I never knew I had.

People spend all their lives chasing possessions and money and status, but in the end, what they desire most is to be seen. To Matter. In the end, basic need is all anyone wants

Repeat after me: I only invest my energy into people who invest in me. I only date people who intentionally want to get to know me. I do not chase people and try to convince them to like me.

It’s shocking to me that boys are where your thoughts are focused at this time in the morning, so unlike you.” Ami laughed off my sarcasm. “No need to be so grumpy, just get some make-up on those bags and you’ll be fine.” “Sure, sure,” I agreed without enthusiasm. “Oh! I know what I wanted to tell you – you’ll never guess who Thomas is chasing after now…” Hmmm, never guess or can’t be bothered to guess – it was a hard call. I yawned again, glancing at the bed, which was inviting me to clamber back inside and pull the sheet over my head. So tempting, but not practical.

I felt as if I were running in a labyrinth, chasing after something I could not see yet knew was important. I sensed it was just ahead, and then it would go around a corner, and I would be lost. I would have to decide what to do next, where to go, and what I needed to get out of that confusing place. If I stopped running and stood still, I would be accepting that what I had was all I would ever have. And then I would no longer be lost, because there would be nowhere else to go.

You nervous about doing this on camera?” Chance tilted his head a little, considering. “Well, yeah, of course. You don’t know what you look like when you come—for all I know, I’m hella ugly or something. But at the same time....” He trailed off and shuddered, and his eyes got half-lidded. One hand went unconsciously to his stomach, then slid up to his nipples, which were still pointy and puckered. “It’s sort of cool. It’s making my stomach all jumpy, and....” His other hand slid down under the waistband of his shorts, as he made obvious kneading motions on his groin. “It’s turning you on?” “Mmmm....” “Take the shorts off, Chance, and show us.

Chase was gone then, and Donnie was back, alone in his room, wondering about those pictures from an art book he'd so admired. Because it felt like he'd just lived one, and it had been beautiful, so beautiful, and he'd been able to reach out and touch the lines of it, but it still hurt.

This is the ultimate narcissistic white-girl game. I would picture how I would handle the attack differently. Or the same. Inevitably, I'd think about my own death, which next to staring at your face in a magnifying mirror is probably the worst thing you can do for yourself. The ambulance-chasing aspect combined with the Monday-morning quarterbacking of it all is the luxury afforded to those of us left untouched by trauma. Sometimes I would use these tragedy-porn shows to unlock deep feelings or cut through the numbness. I would read terrible stories to punish myself for my lucky life. Some real deep Irish Catholic shit. Either way, it was all gross and all bad for my health.

I particularly recommend," [Dain] went on, his eyes upon the female, "that you resist the temptation to count if you are contemplating a gift for your chère amie. Women deal in a higher mathematical realm than men, especially when it comes to gifts." "That, Bertie, is a consequence of the feminine brain having reached a more advanced state of development," said the female without looking up. "She recognizes that the selection of a gift requires the balancing of a profoundly complicated moral, psychological, aesthetic, and sentimental equation. I should not recommend that a mere male atetmpt to involve himself int he delicate process of balancing it, especially by the primitive method of counting.

Our wedding programs included the Yeats quote, “Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.

Japanese chase-away juice.” And

it's your own fears that give them the power to chase you.

Brooke was meant to avoid stress because of her migraines, not chase it, but she’d always been a martyr. Amy remembered Brooke as a little girl, high pigtails and reflective sunglasses.

God is the one who puts dreams inside you. So you'd better chase them fast, before He decides to let them chase you instead....Because sometimes He does that, just to get your attention.

And what does Jubilee Chase want to do with her life, if she’s not hunting down rebel leaders and skinning them alive?” “I don’t know. Something extremely boring. I could go to night school and learn dentistry.” That makes him laugh, a quick burst of a chuckle that makes my own lips curve. “Oh, God no. No way could you be a dentist.” “I could! I’d be a damn good dentist.

You will never climb Career Mountain and get to the top and shout, "I made it!" You will rarely feel done or complete or even successful. Most people I know struggle with that complicated soup of feeling slighted on one hand and like a total fraud on the other. Our ego is a monster... Ambivalence can help tame the beast. Remember, your career is a bad boyfriend. It likes it when you don't depend on it. It will reward you every time you don't act needy. It will chase you if you act like other things (passion, friendship, family, longevity) are more important to you. If your career is a bad boyfriend, it is healthy to remember you can always leave and go sleep with somebody else.

Domestic Where's the wisdom in erasing a loved one's mess, so akin to his signature? Your honor, I only meant to strew the immaculate in his wake. To wipe the path ahead and behind reasonably clean. Futile, yes, but weren't such gestures essential to love's discipline once upon a time? Daily, I harvested dropped fruit peels and socks. I chased him through life with dustpan and broom, smoothed his body dents from the bed, soothed the mud tramped floors. Did I sin in this? Better to leave the habitat sweetly reeking of him than to spend years scrubbing up evidence of his existence. Archaelogists centuries hence may marvel at such relics: his mustard stained napkins, toothpicks chewed to splinters. Never let it be said that in my zeal to clean I robbed the future's museums. Who am I to call what flies to either side of the trail he blazes--half read magazines, cups of scummed over coffee and mashed out cigarettes--dirt?

Oh, Bonny. That’s funny. That’s a funny one. ‘I want the world to accept her,’” he said, pitching his voice a little higher, mimicking me. “Well go on then, woman. Go chase acceptance. When you find it, let me know. ’Cause there’s a few African folk who’d really like to know where it is.

The German deli was run by a distant cousin of Kaiser Wilhelm and the Great Neck Jews loved the place; they flocked to Kuch's. They said to one another, What a character he is, Otto, strictly old country, I'm telling you. Gus didn't think that Negroes would rush to shop in a store run by some retired slave owner, eager to share memories of fun times on the plantation, praising Massa's old-fashioned Mississippi charm. Jews were still chasing that absurd, wishful feather. Eventually, Jews would become like everybody else. They'd elevate small grievances; they'd cherish hurt feelings and ill treatment like they were signs of virtue.

The last week of shooting, we did a scene in which I drag Amanda Wyss, the sexy, blond actress who played Tina, across the ceiling of her bedroom, a sequence that ultimately became one of the most visceral from the entire Nightmare franchise. Tina’s bedroom was constructed as a revolving set, and before Tina and Freddy did their dance of death, Wes did a few POV shots of Nick Corri (aka Rod) staring at the ceiling in disbelief, then we flipped the room, and the floor became the ceiling and the ceiling became the floor and Amanda and I went to work. As was almost always the case when Freddy was chasing after a nubile young girl possessed by her nightmare, Amanda was clad only in her baby-doll nightie. Wes had a creative camera angle planned that he wanted to try, a POV shot from between Amanda’s legs. Amanda, however, wasn’t in the cameramen’s union and wouldn’t legally be allowed to operate the cemera for the shot. Fortunately, Amy Haitkin, our director of photography’s wife, was our film’s focus puller and a gifted camera operator in her own right. Being a good sport, she peeled off her jeans and volunteered to stand in for Amanda. The makeup crew dapped some fake blood onto her thighs, she lay down on the ground, Jacques handed her the camera, I grabbed her ankles, and Wes called, “Action.” After I dragged Amy across the floor/ceiling, I spontaneously blew her a kiss with my blood-covered claw; the fake blood on my blades was viscous, so that when I blew her my kiss of death, the blood webbed between my blades formed a bubble, a happy cinematic accident. The image of her pale, slender, blood-covered legs, Freddy looming over her, straddling the supine adolescent girl, knife fingers dripping, was surreal, erotic, and made for one of the most sexually charged shots of the movie. Unfortunately it got left on the cutting-room floor. If Wes had left it in, the MPAA - who always seemed to have it out for Mr. Craven - would definitely have tagged us with an X rating. You win some, you lose some.

Hi, Amy, it's mom. Well, by the time you see this, I won't be here anymore, and I know how much that sucks, for both of us. So seeing as how I won't be around to thoroughly annoy you, I thought I would give you a little list of the things that I wish for you. Well, there's the obvious. An education. Family. Friends. And a life that is full of the unexpected. Be sure to make mistakes. Make a lot of them, because there's no better way to learn and to grow, all right? And, um, I want you to spend a lot of time at the ocean, because the ocean forces you to dream, and I insist that you, my girl, be a dreamer. God. I've never really believed in God. In fact, I've spent a lot of time and energy trying to disprove that god exists. But I hope that you are able to believe in god, because the thing that I've come to realize, sweetheart... is that it just doesn't matter if god exists or not. The important thing is for you to believe in something, because I promise you that that belief will keep you warm at night, and I want you to feel safe always. And then there's love. I want you to love to the tips of your fingers, and when you find that love, wherever you find it, whoever you choose, don't run away from it. But you don't have to chase after it either. You just be patient, and it'll come to you, I promise, and when you least expect it, like you, like spending the best year of my life with the sweetest and the smartest and the most beautiful baby girl in the world. You don't be afraid, sweetheart. And remember, to love is to live.

Regrettably, all that happened was that Blake became another man over whom Amy sought control but who ended up controlling her. Blake clearly loved Amy but I don’t believe he was ever emotionally there for her. That the media built Blake up to be an evil monster was laughable to me. He was a baby boy who had never grown up himself and who demanded unhealthy amounts of attention. Every time he pulled away from Amy, she chased him. It was infatuation. As far as I could see, their relationship had very little to do with kindness or care at that stage and everything to do with co-dependency.

I move toward her, unable to resist; her eyes are wet, her face flushed, and I can finally look at her, want her, let myself touch her without grief turning everything to ashes in my mouth. “You’ve ruined me,” she repeats, her voice quieting a little as it catches. “You’ve ruined me—you made me wake up. And now I can’t get rid of you.” Her voice surges again as I reach out, curling my hand around her arm, her skin flushed hot under my fingers. “You won’t leave me alone.” I scan her features, my eyes trying to make up for too much time spent trying not to look at her. I can’t look away. “You think I want to be here with you?” I reply, my voice hoarse. “You think if you walked out right now, I’d chase you?” She gazes back at me, her eyes a challenge. “Wouldn’t you?” “You know I would,” I snap, surrendering. “And I have no idea why that’s such a problem.” She jerks her arm free and backs up a step until she hits the door. “It’s a problem because I’d let you!” she blurts. Then, after a harsh breath, she murmurs, “It’s a problem because I’d want you to.

In fourth grade, I had a talk with the school psychologist about all the things that actively terrified me . . . After our session, he handed my mom a list of all my fears . . . Highest (and most memorable) on the list was the specific fear that I'd accidentally churn myself into butter. This was inspired by a creepy antique children's book called Little Black Sambo, which is one of those stories from the simpler, more racist times of yore when people wrote frightening, insulting tales to help children fall asleep at night. It was highly popular back in the day and has since been rightly banned or taken out of circulation. But my mom had a copy lying around. It's about a boy who goes on an adventure and ends up getting chased by tigers, who circle and circle around a tree so fast that they churn themselves into a pool of butter, which the boy then takes home for his mother to use to make pancakes. Like ya do. Anyway, I was always riddled with fear that I'd somehow be transformed into melted butter, which now doesn't really sound like that much of a bummer. It sounds more like how I'd like to spend my last twenty-four hours on this earth.

There were three great comedians in my formative years—Bill Cosby, Bill Murray, and Richard Pryor—and they wrecked comedy for a generation. How? By never saying anything funny. You can quote a Steve Martin joke, or a Rodney Dangerfield line, but Pryor, Cosby, and Murray? The things they said were funny only when they said them. In Cosby’s case, it didn’t even need to be sentences: “The thing of the thing puts the milk in the toast, and ha, ha, ha!” It was gibberish and America loved it. The problem was that they inspired a generation of comedians who tried coasting on personality—they were all attitude and no jokes. It was also a time when comedy stars didn’t seem to care. Bill Murray made some lousy movies; Richard Pryor and Eddie Murphy made even more; and any script that was too lame for these guys, Chevy Chase made. These were smart people—they had to know how bad these films were, but they just grabbed a paycheck and did them. Most of these comic actors started as writers—they could have written their own scripts, but they rarely bothered. Then, at the end of a decade of lazy comedy and half-baked material, The Simpsons came along. We cared about jokes, and we worked endless hours to cram as many into a show as possible. I’m not sure we can take all the credit, but TV and movies started trying harder. Jokes were back. Shows like 30 Rock and Arrested Development demanded that you pay attention. These days, comedy stars like Seth Rogen, Amy Schumer, Kristen Wiig, Melissa McCarthy, and Jonah Hill actually write the comedies they star in.

Do you remember the time we tied a lasso to a tree limb and decided to swing across the creek like Tarzan?" Wyatt tipped up his frosty bottle and took a long pull. "Yeah." Zane was already laughing. "As usual,you two decided that I'd be the one to try it out first.That way,if it broke,I'd be the one tossed into the creek." "It stands to reason." Jesse chuckled. "You were the youngest. That's just the price you had to pay to hang out with us." "And," Wyatt added, "you were always willing to go along with whatever we decided." Zane shook his head. "Not when I used it to fly across the creek." "And not when I followed him," Wyatt said with a laugh. "But Jesse, assured that it was safe,grabbed hold and was flying through the air when the branch snapped." Amy looked over at her husband. "You landed in the creek?" "Yeah? On the day after one of our biggest storms,with the water spilling over its banks and rushing so fast it carried me downstream half a mile or more." She put a hand to her mouth to cover her shock and saw Cora do the same. Wyatt laughed. "He was lucky Zane and I had our horses tethered nearby.We chased along the banks of the creek until we could get far enough ahead to toss him a tree branch to catch. By the time we hauled him out,he looked like a drowned rat and was spitting mad." "I had a right to be.I swallowed half the creek." Zane laughed. "But think how lucky we were that it happened to you instead of me. At least you could swim." Marilee's eyes rounded. "They had you test the rope when they knew you couldn't swim?" Wyatt was laughing even harder. "We figured it was one way for him to learn." "How old were you?" They thought a minute before Wyatt answered. "I was eight,so that would make Jesse ten and Zane seven." "You could have all drowned." "Yeah.Looking back,we were lucky to have surrived so many foolish adventures. But," Wyatt added, "I wouldn't have missed a single one of them." of them

Huzzah! Free Trade and Sailors' Rights! But instead American ships are captured and sailors impressed by the thousands into the British Navy, becoming slaves to the lash, while the United States has virtually no navy to back them up. Baltimore native, Nathan Jeffries, son of an American hero, Captain William Jeffries, and his Quaker wife, Amy, is haunted by the memories of his fiancee, his best friend, his enemy's woman and his betrayal. Chesapeake Bay is no refuge aboard his father's brig Bucephalus;facing his worst fears, he is chased and captured by armed privateer schooner Scourge. In a violent world at war, Nathan must break his most solemn promise to his mother. For Nathan and the young United States, 1812 would severely challenge rights of passage.

second book.) Looking silly can be very powerful. People who are committing and taking risks become the king and queen of my prom. People are their most beautiful when they are laughing, crying, dancing, playing, telling the truth, and being chased in a fun way.

By late February, Bill went red in the face on almost daily conference calls trying to warn Brooklyn that Trump had a shrewd understanding of the angst that so many voters—his voters, the white working class whom Clinton brought back to the Democratic Party in 1992—were feeling.

In the end, none of it mattered. I’d always tried to see and cover Hillary as a complete person, with black and white and lots of gray areas, but there was never any gray area in how Hillary saw me. No number of positive, front-page stories could change her mind. And I understood why Hillary hated the Hamptons story in particular. Mingling with the .001 percent looked terrible. But it was true, all of it.

Uh-oh!” said Lizzy. “There’s a boy coming over from the boys’ side of the playground, and guess who it is.” There wasn’t any rule about a boys’ side and a girls’ side at Bear Country School. But the boys did sort of stay on one side of the playground and the girls on the other. Oh! I hope it’s Herbie Cubbison! thought Sister. Sister Bear liked Herbie, and everybody knew it--except maybe Herbie. “Is it Herbie?” asked Sister, not wanting to look. “No,” said Lizzy. “It’s Billy Grizzwold.” “Oh, no! Not that awful Billy Grizzwold!” said Sister, turning the rope faster and faster. “Hey, slow down,” said Amy. “Hi, Sister!” said Billy. “Don’t you ‘hi’ me, said Sister, “and you better not have a worm, like you did yesterday, or a dead mouse, like you did the day before!” “No worm. No dead mouse,” said Billy. “Just me!” And with that he began jumping with Amy and got tangled in the rope. Down they all fell in a heap. “Why, you…!” said Sister. She pulled the rope free and ran after Billy. Sister was a fast runner. But Billy was faster and kept just ahead of her. Oh, why doesn’t Herbie Cubbison come to my rescue? thought Sister as she chased Billy around and around the playground. Herbie was too busy playing fistball even to notice.

In these speeches, she didn’t sound like a “progressive who likes to get things done,” but a smart, savvy technocrat at home among the global elite. Hillary lamented, “there is such a bias against people who have led successful and/or complicated lives.

I’d been called a cunt and a donkey-faced whore and a Hillary shill, but nothing hurt worse than my own colleagues calling me a de facto instrument of Russian intelligence. The worst part was they were right. The Times columnist David Leonhardt put it best when he wrote, “the overhyped coverage of the hacked emails was the media’s worst mistake in 2016—one sure to be repeated if not properly understood.

Michael Barbaro and I spent all afternoon calling women voters. We declared that women watched the debate “through the same inescapable prism: a raunchy, three-minute recording in which Mr. Trump told of kissing and touching women however he pleased.” We called this “Trump’s new, agonizing and self-created reality” and declared his campaign “imperiled by his careless approach to gender . . .” Less than a month later, Trump would win a majority of white women.

I suppose I could have stayed home and baked cookies and had teas, but what I decided to do was to fulfill my profession, which I entered before my husband was in public life. —Hillary Clinton, 1992

Scoops are not my forte. I prefer lunch-based reporting. I usually hear something newsy, let it percolate through a dessert course, and then sit on it for several days as I craft a feature around it.

is-a-rapist meme ratcheting up, I emailed Trump to ask if he was an imperfect messenger, given his own very public infidelities and his ex-wife, Ivana, recently denying rumors of assault charges against him. “I believe that I am the perfect messenger,” Trump replied, “because I fully understand life and all of its wrinkles.” I forwarded his response to my editors with the very professional subject line “OMG.

I woke up an hour later, and my phone was exploding. I had hundreds of new Twitter followers and a stream of text messages. The texts came from second cousins and high school friends in Texas, from at least two senators, one sitting cabinet secretary, and a former Wall Street Journal colleague in Hong Kong. My first thought was that I must’ve inserted a terrible mistake in our story. My career was over. Then I saw @RealDonaldTrump’s tweet: “Third rate reporters Amy Chozick and Maggie Haberman of the failing @nytimes are totally in the Hillary circle of bias. Think about Bill!

But, once again, Hillary’s biggest missteps of 2016 stemmed from trying to prove she’d learned from mistakes made in 2008.

I was pretty focused and stoic about another week without Bobby until my Glow app sent me the super-helpful pastel-purple alert, “Your fertile window is closing . . .” This led to my sobbing to Maggie Haberman over a chardonnay in the hotel lobby. She looked up from Twitter, over her glasses. “Okay, you need to take that app off your phone immediately,” Mags said.

The traveling press had become the province of what one prickly print reporter (on his way to a buyout) called “the Human Tripods,” the young network embeds who’d never covered a campaign before and who had to capture everything the candidate did on video.

Of course. Hillary was DeWitt Clinton. She had the perseverance and the political headwinds and the $275 billion infrastructure plan.

The underpromise line made Brooklyn cringe. It didn’t take a room full of pollsters to know that American voters preferred to elect charismatic men who wildly overpromise.

I once saw Hillary criticize Bernie’s college plan (“I’m not going to take care of rich people”) to a thirteen-year-old whom she then referred to HillaryClinton.com to read the details of her “New College Compact.” “That’s what it’s called, okay?” Hillary said, crouching down to eye level with the teen. He stared blankly. “Want a selfie?!” she asked.

Bill Clinton summed up the campaign’s mood after Iowa when he took the stage in Nashua and opened with this stirring line: “Well, we’re here and we’re awake.

(Despite all our talk about the web and “digital first,” the six most beautiful words in the English language remained, “They want it for the front.”)

In 2008, Hillary used to tell me I was asking the wrong questions. “Well, Amy, that’s not what you should be asking . . .” and then proceed to respond to the question she wanted to answer. “God, I wish you weren’t always asking the wrong questions,” Anne Kornblut, the Washington Post reporter, would say as the scrum disassembled.

Between the hours of 10:00 a.m. and noon, Hillary became a different person. She recited scripture with the fluency of a renowned theologian, the verve of a TV evangelist. She loved the Epistle of James: “Scripture tells us that faith without works is dead.” She said she tried to live up to the prophet Micah’s teachings, “that we do justice, love kindness and walk humbly with our God.” She explained that her Christianity is “a journey that never

When all the politics and caution were stripped away, Hillary was at her core a Methodist, a church lady, a fire-and-brimstone Jesus-saves believer. When I try to tell people this, they always say she’s just another pandering politician. Trust me, you don’t drop the prophet Micah in mid-conversation because you’re pandering. You can’t fake extended allusions to the Eight Beatitudes of Jesus (as she did during a town hall in Knoxville, Iowa) or casually quote the Jesuit academic Henri Nouwen’s parable on the prodigal son during a CNN town hall (as Hillary did in response to a rabbi’s question in Manchester).

By the time I left the House of Prayer to get a flight back to Boston and cab it back to Manchester, Flint wasn’t the story. Not even close. Bill Clinton had gone off message. He told a crowd in Milford, New Hampshire, that Bernie was a “hermetically sealed” hypocrite. “When you’re making a revolution, you can’t be too careful with the facts,” he said. Meanwhile, Madeleine Albright and Gloria Steinem had declared war on young women for supporting Bernie—

Hillary’s impromptu visit—hair messy, makeup untouched up—moved these women, on hourly wages and tired feet, to tears.

But nothing made Hillary seem like more of a monarch than her insistence that she be cocooned in the clouds at thirty-six thousand feet a safe distance from the press and the Everydays, surrounded only by her royal court, security, and a spread of crudités.

Wisconsin, the only state with any real electoral value, hadn’t voted for a Republican since 1984 when Ronald Reagan swept forty-nine states. The state’s conservative talk-show host, Charlie Sykes, called Trump a “whiny, thin-skinned bully.

point debated by political pundits and historians for years to come. I considered it progress that eight years later, Hillary cried all the time and no one really noticed. There was the time backstage in Manchester when

After the speech, I climbed off the riser and raced over to Hired Gun Guy to rip into him that a dog had been assigned a better position on the press riser than the Times. “That fucking dog and his little doggie bed had a prime view,” I’d said. “You’re kidding me, right?” Hired Gun replied. “That’s Marnie the Dog. She has like two million followers on Instagram. Sorry, but the shih tzu has more reach than the Times and the AP.

Hillary was still following the Mitt Romney Playbook, not realizing that she was the Romney in the race.

Matthew Dowd, a former chief strategist to George W. Bush who is now an independent, told me in late February, “Hillary has built a large tanker ship and she’s about to confront Somali pirates.” Brooklyn blew it all off. The math was

I’d spent months requesting interviews with Hillary. Always the answer from Brooklyn, no matter how positive or substantive the topic, was either stone-cold silence or a hard no. But there I was in Bryant Park, picking up my phone to . . . “Amy, it’s Donald Trump . . .

Then I said something I never should have said. “Thanks very much for calling, Mr. Trump. I’ve been covering Hillary since 2007, and she’s never called me.” “Is that right?” The wheels were turning. “When was the last time she talked to you?” Trump asked. I thought about it. “I don’t know. I guess it’s probably been five, six months since she had a press conference.” Silence. The wheels turned some more. “You know why?” Trump said. I wanted to say, Yes, Mr. Trump, because she hates us and thinks we have big egos and tiny brains. But I’d already said too much.

Look at her, look at her face,” Freeman says of the photo of Hillary in the Situation Room holding a hand to her mouth and surrounded by men paralyzed, their eyes fixed to a screen showing images of a Navy SEAL raid on a compound in Pakistan. “She’s carrying the hope and the rage of an entire nation.” In 2011, Hillary attributed her expression in the photo to her pollen allergies.

who sacrificed personal ambition for her husband’s political career

In a way, Trump’s mistreatment of the media had done Hillary a favor by freeing her of the decorum of a traditional campaign. But it also meant the reporters who spent their days trying to cover and explain Hillary to the American public never got to bridge, as one reporter who traveled with the first lady in the 1990s put it, the “disconnect between the kind of person you could convey or are in private and amongst us on these trips, so much sense of humor, very warm and engaging in what we see on television or in the news.” How could we communicate Hillary’s “funny, wicked, and wacky” side to voters if we never saw it for ourselves?

Huma does the schedule and, uh, a lot of other things,” Robby said. In an instant, Robby had reduced to an afterthought the most important force (whose last name wasn’t Clinton) on the campaign and the person whom many of Hillary’s friends would blame for her loss. Robby didn’t know at the time, he couldn’t have, that the “a lot of other things” Huma would do included his own job. I’d been an insecure mess at the Podesta dinner.

Maggie Haberman sat near the center of the main table. She didn’t have to work the room. Everyone came up to her. Maggie started at the Times the same day as David’s funeral. Carolyn’s poaching her away from Politico was inspired. We all had whiplash refreshing our Twitter feeds trying to keep up with Maggie’s reporting. I was excited to have her as a colleague, partly because you don’t want to compete with Maggie and partly because she was another badass woman to join our almost entirely male politics team.

Jen, the highest-ranking communications professional in Democratic politics, could hardly spit out a sentence. We had that in common, too. I’d listen to the audio of our conversations and transcribe quotes like “It’s um, I don’t, I don’t, we would, uh, it is, uh, I just saw the president’s, um, uh, comments, about it . . .” and “Like, we have a plan, literally.” I’d eventually see the sly genius in this potpourri of uhs and likes and ums, peppered with eye rolls, confused squints, and a crooked smile. Jen gave us on-the-record access while rendering virtually every conversation unquotable.

Depending on whom you asked, Hillary had spent the past eight years or her entire life thinking about that question, yet when she started her 2016 campaign, her only clear vision of the presidency seemed to be herself in it.

That was how I envisioned Hillary’s consultants when they sat in the conference room of her private office in midtown Manhattan to contemplate what to call this curious specimen of 121 million Americans who were technically middle class.

But by her second campaign, Hillary had spent four years traveling the world, meeting with the likes of Egyptian president Mohamed Morsi and the Burmese opposition leader Aung San Suu Kyi in Rangoon—a long way from Rochester. Hillary seemed like Rip van Winkle, awoken after a seven-year slumber to find a vastly different country. She’d missed the rise of the Tea Party. She’d missed the Occupy Wall Street movement and the rage over health care and bank bailouts and the 1 percent.

Perusing Hillary’s paid speeches to Wall Street banks, Mandy Grunwald expressed her biggest concern. “The remarks below make it sound like HRC DOESNT think the game is rigged—only that she recognizes that the public thinks so,” she said. “They are angry. She isn’t.

it was never about the slogan; it was about Hillary’s inability to articulate why she wanted to be president. It was about Hillary, who’d been so in touch with struggling voters eight years earlier, not being able to see that Americans had to be pretty pissed off to no longer want to be called middle class.

Bill glimpsed the press piled up, like coiled springs waiting to pounce. Seeing me scrunched in the bottom front, he said, “Oh, hi, Amy.” (Unlike Hillary, who had a gift for looking straight through me as if I were a piece of furniture, Bill always said hello.) Asked about the significance of the evening, he said, “To finish here tonight I felt was important because that is where the country began.” Then Bill Clinton did what he always did. He made the biggest night in Hillary’s life about himself. “It was interesting. You know, I sit on the board of the National Constitution Center . . .