Today while reading a book outside on my porch, I was about to turn the page when I noticed a miniscule insect crawling across the bottom left-hand paragraph. I gently brushed it off the page, but this made me wonder how many insects' lives I have inadvertently ended turning earlier pages. It must happen quite often on these pleasant days, when the air is abuzz with bugs. Flipping through used books I have purchased, I have often noticed small brown spots, which I guessed were squashed insects, victims of some earlier reader.

For the unlucky insect who lands on an open page, it must seem like a stable enough surface—why not wander around a bit? It is like people who build in earthquake regions. They buy a hilltop plot, erect a mansion, and sip pinot noir on their deck while enjoying the views. Then nature turns the page.