Peter Orner keeps a small writing studio inside an old hotel on the Connecticut River, where Vermont meets New Hampshire. That room, to put this kindly, is often a landfill, a mess, though not without raw charm. The hotel dates to the 1920s, some artists work here, some people live here. The neighborhood has a drug problem. Orner wades to his desk, he doesn’t walk to his desk. He steps across papers and books. On a wall is some research he did for his latest book, though if you didn’t know he was a writer, you might assume from its pastiche of photos and news headlines that he was a conspiracy nut. He’s embarrassed when friends visit, but all of it works for him.

Across the river is Dartmouth College, where he teaches, and he’s never been comfortable with its Ivy League comforts. His st

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