The age of barbed wire was just finishing up when I discovered that the ice on ponds is probably never 100 percent safe. Less than an hour later, I was back to work elaborating the immense and complex maze from which I hoped to one day escape. And why? Because I love you like grim police photos of some crime scene. The same algorithm recommended that I read an environmental history of Auschwitz. Instead, I listened to the snow falling, as full of deaths as a Spaghetti Western, and pictured Bach composing with a violin in his hands.