I think of that title of a short story in Joyce’s DUBLINERS whenever I recall an episode during my time in publishing. In the mid-80s I was an associate editor with a small imprint of William Morrow, Beech Tree Books. One afternoon the editor-in-chief asked me to go to the reception area to meet with a former Morrow author. It was Shulamith Firestone who at that time was apparently living out of a post office box in Manhattan. She sat on the couch surrounded by several shopping bags ( the term “bag lady” was then in vogue). Every six months or so she would show up demanding an audit of her royalty statements. After a couple of visits I realized she believed she was under surveillance by the government because of her writings. I recalled her name. Probably from an “underground” newspaper and I had seen a copies of her book lying about apartments and faculty offices while in college. She talked but never looked at you. She made her request then often rambled on for some time. I sat by her and listened. I don’t know if there was any relation between her radical ideas and her condition. She may well have been simply mentally ill. She seemed abandoned by her more comfortable and tenured colleagues. Then again no matter what people try to do there are people who cannot be helped. I admit that at the time I was inclined to connect her situation with her extreme and incoherent positions in the past. But whatever I thought, mostly I felt sorry for her. And helpless to do anything for her.