I met Jacob in the Writing Division lounge at the beginning of my first year. He was sitting on the couch, talking with another student, rolling his eyes, sighing, and moving about as if very uncomfortable and unable to find that perfect spot. They were discussing Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow, a book that I had never read. I was off by the mailboxes, listening intently, facing away from them, but slyly looking in their direction. The student talking to Jacob was loud, pompous and had a ghastly laugh. He seemed an impossible figure – straight out of commedia dell'arte. A few times he said something he thought very funny, but Jacob didn't laugh. Part spectator, part participant, I moved closer.

They continued to discuss books I hadn't read. Jacob was dismissive of nearly everything except Ulysses, and the other guy talked about books with vague, inflated language. It was hard to believe he had read these books, and I was baffled that he thought he was convincing us he had read them. "Doesn't anyone read Heinrich Böll anymore?" I asked. Jacob turned to smile at me, indicating an understanding that I was half mocking and half joining in on the spectacle before me. "Yeah, Böll," he said, contorting a bit and placing a hand over his stomach. "Purportedly the voice and so-called conscience of post-war Germany. He's not exactly that now, is he?"

That first semester, Jacob and I had three classes together and we met regularly for lunch. At first, our conversations centered around German literature, but we soon recognized in each other that paradoxical quality of insecurity coupled with ego and the tendency to indulge in sharp cynical humor as a kind of solace.

At Division meetings, I sat with Jacob, and in an otherwise lonely, impersonal program, I felt I had a friend. I got to know Jacob better during our second year when we hung out at his apartment, only a short walk from my own. The last time I saw him was at the MFA Thesis Sampler. I thought his story "Combustion" was excellent. He was extraordinarily talented. After I gave my reading, he was the first one I spoke with during the intermission. Even when critical, he was always supportive. I trusted and relied on his feedback more than any other classmate.

I didn't see much of Jacob our last semester, but in April, we went on a double date to his favorite Thai restaurant. He and his girlfriend Dana were deeply in love. They were beaming, and Jacob looked to be in better spirits than I had ever seen him. My girlfriend Priscilla was in town, and I was glad we all finally had the chance to get together. Jacob had been to this restaurant so many times, he knew the menu by heart, and he ordered a beautiful array of dishes. The food was spicy and a lot of rice was needed. I remember talking frenetically over the chaotic mass of food, somewhat oblivious of my surroundings, when Jacob took note that my girlfriend's eyes had wandered over and were fixed on the plate of white rice, only she was too shy to ask for it. He smiled. "Would you like some rice, Priscilla?" he asked. Whenever I think of Jacob, this memory is the first to surface. While Jacob is often remembered and appreciated (and rightly so) for his sardonicism, his biting wit, his sharp intellectual mind, and his literary gifts, for me, that moment epitomized Jacob's spirit.