How quickly and how often those who heard about the sudden death of helen tartar asked, did i let her know how much her support meant to me? Did I express adequately my gratitude for all the work she did for me and for others in literature, philosophy, critical theory, visual culture, poetry, and religion, to name but a few of her fields? I do not think it was a reflex of self-punishment as much as the upsurge of another kind of remorse, the wishing to have said more. At the American Comparative Literature Association's memorial for Helen Tartar, person after person testified to the extraordinary support she offered—soliciting a manuscript; reading it actively and critically; sometimes productively quarreling with its ideas or formulations; finding the right readers; collaborating on the material form, including cover and font; and sending the work forth into the world of readers, “worlding” it, if you will. Some at that event spoke about the race against tenure and the acute anxiety it produces, and how crucial Helen was in expediting a review and presenting the work before the board for approval. Others talked about her frank and sensitive evaluations, which let us know what had to change before the manuscript became a book—always delivered with an affirmation of the project. But because Helen was a committed intellectual with her own philosophical, literary, and religious archive, she also contested conclusions and queried moves. I remember how, when she copyedited The Psychic Life of Power (in the days when she handled every aspect of production at Stanford), she quarreled with my reading of Freud and sent me to new sources to correct my view. To Haun Saussy, with whom she worked on several projects, she wrote, “When I read this argument, I felt I needed to take hold of it like a twisted sock and pull it inside-out.” She was our first reader, and we were incredibly lucky because she paid attention.