Curses!

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I can't understand it,” Julie said, lifting a dog-eared pile of term papers and theses from the chair at the side of the desk. “You are basically a neat and orderly man. You don't throw your socks on the floor. You don't leave your underwear hanging on chairs. You clean up your own-"

"Careful,” Gideon said. “This is going to my head."

Julie looked unsuccessfully around for someplace to deposit the pile. Gideon pointed to the back left corner of his desk, already three inches deep in paper. “Jam it up against the wall so it doesn't slide off."

She did, began to sit down, and winced. From beneath her she extracted a metal nameplate: “Gideon P. Oliver, Professor of Physical Anthropology,” the plastic insert said. She propped it on top of the papers.

"So why,” she continued, “do you live in an office that looks like this?” Her gesture took in the entire cluttered space: the desk, the gray metal file cabinet, the two standing bookcases, the wall-mounted shelves over the desk that he had hung himself, defying university policy. All of it was overflowing with paper and books. Many of the books were open, lying helter-skelter with their spines up and bristling with torn-paper markers.

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