A luminous wit, the kind that seems edged in fire, glows from certain stage performances, and on the rare occasions you encounter it, you can’t help but feel more alive. This trait isn’t just about the usual qualities associated with memorable acting — emotional verisimilitude, being in the moment, a star’s towering presence.

No, this particular radiance has more to do with a sharp and playful intelligence that, without being grand or self-conscious, transmits the joy of being able to shape a character out of air, in real time and a shared space, for an audience’s delectation. Among Americans these days, Kevin Kline and Frank Langella have it; so does Audra McDonald and, on the few occasions I’ve seen her perform live, Meryl Streep.

Jan Maxwell, who died on Sunday at 61, also belongs in that select group. Except among connoisseurs of theater, her name has never been as well-known as that of a Streep or Langella. This despite her having received five Tony Award nominations — and her being one of only five women nominated in all of the possible Tony acting categories. (Ms. McDonald is another).

[ Read the obituary of Jan Maxwell. ]

I sometimes wondered why Ms. Maxwell never achieved wider recognition. (She never did win a Tony.) Perhaps it was a matter of choice, of not wanting or needing the ego shot of marquee-goddess stature, though her high cheekbones and lynx’s eyes endowed her with the appropriate appearance. It may also be that she seemed to hail from another era, when theater stardom was perceived as the headiest kind of celebrity and sufficient unto itself.