My office is a lead-lined bunker, impervious to signals from without; the danger, therefore, dwells within. All I keep on my desk are two dictionaries and a thesaurus, but even a dictionary, I’ve found, can devour an hour or two. Words beginning with F or N in particular are spell-binding when there’s a deadline approaching.

Lately, I made the mistake of allowing a copy of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes (188X) to infiltrate the bunker. It’s an old small-format hardback with a maroon leatherette cover, perfect for the pocket when walking. I was reading it when I came in and, not wanting the discomfort of a book-filled pocket when seated, set it down on my desk. Oh, all right, it’s true: I put it there as a distraction. And it worked.