My junior year of college I moved into an apartment whose bedroom came furnished with a large, gorgeous wooden desk—which surface I immediately proceeded to cover with piles and piles of books. The piles eventually got so high, Z became convinced they were going to topple over and kill me. This obviously did not happen, but stacks of paper may yet be the end of me! That’s a picture of the situation above my desk. One of coworkers pulled me aside yesterday to offer to help me move some of the manuscripts. “I don’t like blood,” he said, by way of explanation.