My first year of college, I had a work-study job which ended up being one of the most sneakily important intellectual experiences of my life. I was a lowly library shelver, assigned to the shelves labelled A through F section in the Library of Congress filing system: mostly works on religion, philosophy, sociology, and history. I say sneakily important because at first glance, shelving books in a library is super boring. What it amounts to, physically, is reading the label on a book, then placing it on the shelf where it belongs, repeated around a thousand times per shift. To avoid the tedium, I decided that I would also flip to a random page of every book I shelved and read a random sentence from it. Usually, I would stop there — running aground on some passage by a Hungarian classical music critic or a long-dead statistician of Bolivia’s agricultural development or any number of other things that failed to catch my interest.…