I walked to the mailbox and pulled out a sheaf of envelopes that included a letter from Philip Roth. I was twenty-nine and pregnant. I had written a book but assumed that no one would read it—and, anyway, I was preoccupied with three older children and a pot of rice. I set down the pile of mail and didn’t open the letter. Assuming the letter was an invitation to join a famous person in a cause or a favorite charity, I set the pile of mail on the table.

As it turned out, the envelope contained a bona fide letter from Philip Roth, a response to one of the first stories I’d ever published.

The day before, I’d bought a bag of shrimp that cost eight dollars. I had never spent that much money on an item of food. I had just stirred the shrimp into the pot of hot buttered rice when I opened the letter. I put the lid on the pot and tried to understand what I was reading.

Philip’s earliest works were fearless and fearlessly funny—then came the subtler beauty of “The Ghost Writer.” His work struck down self-consciousness for me. His worked had blasted the doors off American fiction and other writers were stepping through. He had typed the letter out and signed his name. It did not seem forged. I read the letter over and over.

Oh, but dinner. When I took the lid off the pot, the shrimp had dissolved into the rice. The intimidating Dartmouth faculty arrived. Someone asked what the dish was called, and I said, “Mexican shrimp and rice.”

“Where’s the shrimp?” the professor said.

I pointed at some faint pink specks.

So what? Nothing mattered but the letter. Philip made this sort of difference to many writers. He was extremely generous with the young and unknown, as well as those he thought deserved more attention. He was famously devoted to his own work, and, like any of us, guarded his hours and his energy. But he stole from his own time to offer support to many other writers by working with PEN, introducing Eastern European writers to new readers, founding an award to recognize American fiction, and sending along the same sort of encouragement that I received.

For years, I occasionally saw Philip and Claire, then, after their divorce, just Philip. Life had thrown him around. Famously thrown him around. I had landed hard, too. It was a relief to talk to someone who could make the most unbearable moment funny. We started talking more often, on the phone. Conversation with Philip was sometimes like being grilled by a precocious child. He zeroed in on something he didn’t know and would not stop asking questions. He wanted to know everything about Native-owned casinos, about tribal law. Eventually, I gave him a book list, cautioning him to read it slowly so that he wouldn’t get depressed. “All right, Louise of the Dark Knowledge,” he answered. After he stopped writing, he began reading historical series that required intense and sustained concentration. He showed me the way to age: read your way up the mountain. He was becoming ever more brilliant.

Last February, my daughter Kiizh and I visited Philip. He was kindly, patient, and, as always, curious. He wrote down what I was reading—“Nomadland,” by Jessica Bruder. He was trying to understand what had happened to our country, and his project was now the heartland. We got to talking about his early years. He described his first apartment in New York, a basement apartment. As he wrote, people walked by constantly. He could see their feet from his desk. Back and forth. And in those early days he had a cat, which would sit on his manuscript. I found it hard to believe that he’d had a cat. Suddenly, Philip pointed out that, when you get to a certain age, people see you and the first thing they say is “You look great!”

“I know,” I said. “It means you’re getting old.”

“That’s exactly what it means,” he said.

“You look great.”

“You look great, too.”

“The only one here who really looks great is Kiizh,” I said.

“How old are you, Kiizh?”

“Seventeen.”

Philip looked at me, dumbstruck. I looked back at him, also dumbstruck. For once, he had no questions. There really wasn’t anything to say. Seventeen! Kiizh is good at silence. After a while, he gathered himself.

“What are you reading?” he asked her.

“ ‘Huck Finn.’ ”

He smiled the most wonderful, euphoric smile. (Recalling that smile, I miss him terribly.)

“Oh! To read ‘Huckleberry Finn’ for the first time!”

“Really, it’s ‘Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,’ ” Kiizh said.

“Seventeen. And already a copy editor!”

This post was updated with additional details.