New York -- The first time I saw David Halberstam was in the spring of 2001 when I was a student, sitting in class at Columbia's Graduate School of Journalism, attempting to learn to write a book proposal.

The idea that I would one day write a book had not yet sunk in; much less the knowledge of how difficult but how joyful the journey would be. And so when he came to class, I was prepared to hear advice from a seasoned journalist, an experienced writer, a successful author. I was unprepared to hear him extol the joys of reporting, the thrill of unearthing forgotten historical facts, the pleasures of learning something new, every day, with every interview. He was, I realized, still a reporter.

 

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The second and last time I saw David Halberstam was Saturday evening when he gave a talk -- as it happened, his last public talk -- at the University of California at Berkeley. I was a member of an audience composed, mainly, of journalists who had attended a long-day conference of the Graduate School of Journalism about the intersection between journalism and history.

 

Having already written and published the book that had existed only in my heart and mind when I met Mr. Halberstam six years ago, I had been a panelist at the conference discussing, among other things, the rewards and perils of interviewing people about events long past. The highlight of the day, however, for me and the others assembled in that auditorium, was clearly Mr. Halberstam's talk.

As if to prepare us for it, a group of about 20 panelists and conference organizers dined at a French restaurant where we ordered bottles of red and white wine, ate beef and salmon and chicken, and had a bitter chocolate dessert with ice cream (I remember thinking, I should take the menu with me, because I felt, somehow, that the night was memorable, but I didn't.). Under a persistent rain, we all crammed into cars and taxis and rushed to Mr. Halberstam's talk. I barely had time to shake his hand and make a quick comment of how we had met a long time ago, in a class. He asked, "When?" I said, "Spring, 2001." That wasn't that long ago, he said correctly. But to me, having produced just one book in all of six years, it seemed like a lifetime ago.

 

I couldn't tell him about the book or how his talk then and his work always had inspired me to do better, to seek one extra interview, to double check and triple check the facts. He was about to be introduced. He let go of my hand, took the podium, and the microphone was his.

 

I had arrived from New York the night before and knew that Mr. Halberstam was staying at the faculty club, where I, too, was staying. I had searched for him the first evening as I sipped a glass of wine and listened to a piano player and, during breakfast, as I chatted with several women who were there for a sorority reunion. I looked for him at the conference as well, but I couldn't find him. Finally, I asked where he was; one of the conference organizers told me he was at work, in his room. Of course, I thought, and the old guilt washed over me as I remembered my book-seminar professor, Sam Freedman, admonishing a student who wanted to skip class to attend a talk by Mr. Halberstam: "If you go to see David Halberstam, you'd never be David Halberstam."

 

At the talk, Mr. Halberstam confirmed what I had been told. That day, he told us, he had finished reviewing the galleys for his next book, "The Coldest Winter," a book on the Korean War that is scheduled to be released in the fall. He spoke about his devotion to The New York Times. After all these years, he said, he still said "we" when referring to the Times. He told us how he made a $41,000 advance for "The Best and the Brightest" the last four years it took him to report and write that book. Later, he was asked if he wrote to change people's opinions or to affect policy. He said he did what he did because it was the right thing to do. He was also asked why there was so little diversity in the newsrooms across America. And he replied, Well, look around you. We did. There was not one black face in the audience, and, though I can't be sure, I may have been the only Latina. Once again, he had out reported a room full of journalists.

 

He then shared with us the secret to his success, the question that he said is the most important question in journalism: Who else should I talk to? Each of his books, he said, had been like a graduate degree, a four-year education on somebody else's dime. And he felt blessed that all these years somebody had paid for his learning. He was 73 years old, and had just signed a two-book contract. In fact, he was already at work in his next book and had lined up interviews in the San Francisco area for the next few days, he told us. I looked at the writer sitting next to me, Sandy Tolan, with what must have looked to him like anguish and disbelief. Don't worry, he said, you'd have lots of time.

Mr. Halberstam died Monday morning on his way to an interview. He left behind 22 books.