A couple of years ago my parents came for an extended visit. They live in Belgrade, Yugoslavia. It was nice to be together again, after so many years. They also visited our distant relatives, who had recently moved from Liberty, New York, to New Port Richey, Florida. From this excursion they brought me a pair of old shoes in excellent condition, as one of the relatives decided that they were inappropriate for the warm climate down there. The shoes are ugly, or perhaps beautiful according to the aesthetic standards I do not share, but they are indeed comfortable when it rains. They fit me perfectly. In short, I like the shoes. There is a nail protruding from the heel of the left shoe, however. All my socks thus have a small round hole the size of a dime, exactly at the place where the nail is safely lodged. A sticky piece of skin is always there to remind me of the old shoes. And especially when I patter alone around my Cambridge apartment in my slippers. A callous protection has formed on my heel hence, and I do not mind the nail. It does not hurt as much as before. From the very beginning, though, I have decided not to remove the nail. I would not touch it under any circumstances. The nail from Florida is here to stay. And I wonder whether there is any connection between this attitude of mine, unreasonable as it is, and an old Yugoslav expression, used to describe a good, innocent, naive, and stupid man: “He wouldn’t step even on an ant.” I truly wonder—a man who would rather change the world!?