The office is in shambles. Half-filled crates block the hallways and the giant neon backward-R that loomed at the top of the lobby staircase has been removed, leaving only a gray wall and a few nuts and bolts in its place. As editors clear their offices of papers, dictionaries, and other miscellany, the table of discarded books by the back door is piled ever higher.

The utter randomness of these rejects recalls a very extensive Goodwill book section. Along with a selection of airport paperbacks—The Time Traveler’s Wife, Bridget Jones’ Diary—there are the usual high school reading list suspects: Mrs. Dalloway, Hamlet, The Things They Carried. There is a Christmas tree ornament of a flying Santa resting atop a stack of books on race and urban planning. Unsurprisingly, there are a notably high number of guidebooks: to Chicago, to rock music, to blogging, to bars, to film, and, for some reason, to the gay and lesbian scene in London. There is also a well-thumbed, illustrated copy of the Pill Book, an office essential in case any staff members accidentally mix up their Klonopin with their Ritalin.

Some of the staff, like associate editor Kate Schmidt, have adopted a Zen attitude toward the move.

“I don’t hang on to this stuff,” Schmidt said. “I figured we should all travel light.”

Schmidt left behind a book on urban farms, a 2011 Sox media guide, her (gifted) copy of Bridget Jones, and several “terrible” books that she’d been given to review over the years.