Getting cancer changed my feelings about people who smoke. I remember hearing a fellow philosopher expound, with a wave of his cigarette, on his right to choose whether to live and die smoking, or to quit and merely survive. I was just beginning a year of chemotherapy, and mere survival sounded pretty good to me. But I was the visiting speaker, and my hosts were unaware of my diagnosis. Several of them lit up after dinner as we listened to their colleague’s disquisition—they with amused familiarity, I with an outrage that surprised even me and would have baffled them, if I had dared to express it. That I didn’t dare is a cause for regret even now, ten years after the fact.