It is hard to think of Howard (Limoli) not being with us on earth, or that he should have died at all. He was too integral a part of the department for this to have happened. He was like the keel of the ship, if not also its rudder—a man of reasonableness, a kindly presence—unassuming, constant and uninterested, in my memory, in pursuing imbroglios. I know he was a impassioned translator, but what he loved most of all was to button-hole a friend in the parking lot and explain the unbelievable deal he had just made in purchasing a second hand car that a very old and steady person had driven only 2,003 miles in her lifetime. That was when he was boy-like, and I became boy-like and envied him for his important good luck. He had a wry look when he glimpsed an academic intrigue he would not indulge in, and I know he would rather have spent his time in conversations about Dada, Italian and translation. That wry look calmed the hysteria I was quick to embrace. And now in my late years, when I am learning French, of all things, I wish he were around to patiently steer my grammar with his steady, generous hand. I will miss him.