All the years I worked for The New Yorker, I never complained about anything. I felt that… I accepted the fact that the new writers, which I was when I was a new writer, were treated like Inca princes. They had about a year in which they were given every comfort, every encouragement, everything. Then after the year was up, they were marched to the top of the pyramid and their hearts were cut out with an obsidian knife. And I knew this, and I'd seen it with other New Yorker writers. I knew it was going to happen to me, and it did because after a year or two, you became an older writer and the new writers came in and they got the space, the attention and whatever. And I never complained about this. I didn't. I never went in and said, you know, 'Why aren't you publishing my things?' But this was too much and I had a tantrum. Shawn was not there, but I scared the wits out of his secretary and she went and said, when he came, you know, 'Mr Bernstein has gone berserk', or whatever she said. And Shawn put it back in the magazine. I saved the publication of that piece. And it was a very, very good piece. It was a very significant piece and he had no right to do that, absolutely no right to do that. Well, he had a right because, you know, he… it's his magazine, he could do what he wanted, but it was really an immoral act to have done that in that way, and I salvaged the piece.