I still remember the first time I encountered the late Philip Roth. It was between the yellow covers of Portnoy's Complaint. I don't remember where I was, or precisely how old — late in high school or early in college. But I remember who I was, either way. I was the young man overwhelmed and frightened by his own desires, verbally facile and intellectually ambitious but utterly unable to communicate when it came to the subject of desire, even to myself. And here, suddenly, was a man who just said it.