Pause in your reading for just a moment and look around you. I’ll do the same. I’m sitting in what was my daughter’s dining room, but which now serves as my study. To my right is a breakfront, a large antique with a mirror, drawers, and cabinets for storage of dishes and utensils, and lion’s paw feet on rollers. Closer to me is a standing lamp with a single light bulb. Near my elbow is a phone that slips into my pocket, and I’m writing on a 7-year-old MacBook Pro and drinking coffee from a mug featuring London’s Big Ben. On the floor around me are scattered 10 or 12 books that need shelving. Enough. Every single object in this room—the two sticks of gum on the wooden table beside me, the magnifying glass, the bottle of spring water, everything—is the work of human hands and human minds, products of …