I have an image permanently seared in my mind. It’s of a young boy running through the streets of New York City in 1939. He’s looking up at the sky, into the empty space formed by the tall buildings that line every street, and he’s trying to keep the ill-fated Hindenburg in his sight as it flies south to Lakehurst, NJ.

It’s a scene from E.L. Doctorow’s 1985 book, World’s Fair, and it has resonated with me for thirty years because it was written so vividly, it was as if I was there with a boy, chasing a dirigible.

E.L. Doctorow passed away yesterday at the age of 84, and I’m deeply saddened for a couple of reasons–not the least of which is the fact that the literary world has lost a genius and a giant.

I grew up with Doctorow’s books. They’ve spanned my life. Indeed, his first book was written in 1960, before I was born. But the first book to gain my attention was his most famous one, Ragtime, released in 1975. I was ten years old then, and although I didn’t read it until a few years later, it captured my imagination in such a way that it inspired me to listen to Scott Joplin’s piano rags for some time afterward. Simply a title, coupled with such elegant prose, had such a hypnotic power over me.

My favorite book was World’s Fair, but there were so many other great books, like Billy Bathgate and The March. Sure, there were some questionable books, like Loon Lake–a truly difficult read–and the recent Andrew’s Brain, which showed far too much of Doctorow’s political views for my taste. (Note to authors: Nobody cares about your politics–right- or left-leaning. Just shut up and tell me a story.) But in the end, there are few authors that have had such a profound effect on my reading life as E.L. Doctorow has had.

In the 1990s, when I was attending New York University to get my master’s degree in music technology, I found out that he was teaching a writing class at the school of Arts & Sciences. I had already enrolled in Ann Hood’s writing workshop as a way to fulfill credit requirements–and had learned a lot from her in our short time together. (If you haven’t had your writing ripped apart by a class full of students who think they can do it better, you haven’t really lived!) But the master was teaching a class, and I was determined to get in.

I found out his office hours and waited patiently in a long line of students waiting to speak with him about their assignments. When I entered his office, he was seated at his desk and looked up at me over his right shoulder with a look that could only mean, “Who the hell are you and what the hell do you want?” He knew all of his other visitors; I can only imagine he figured me for a fan desperate for some signed books. If that was the case, he wasn’t far off.

I pleaded my case, telling him how hard I would work if he would accept me into his class. He listened patiently, then gave me the bad news: His class was in high demand and was only open to students enrolled in the master’s writing program. It was an NYU rule and there was nothing he could do about it. I thanked him for his time and left, half disappointed, but half elated at having met one of my literary heroes. Looking back on it, I would have liked to have had him sign a couple of my favorite books, but that was neither the time nor forum for such a thing–and I’m pretty sure he would have declined.

But that’s okay. I had my brush with greatness. I’ll never forget the kindly old man at his office desk, and I’ll never forget the boy chasing the Hindenburg down the street.

Thanks for all the great books, Professor Doctorow. And rest in peace.