Tom Wolfe died Tuesday, and in doing so left us a gift — all Americans, really, but particularly millennials. I suppose it’s very millennial to write an obituary of one of the greatest American writers of this modern age by framing it around what he gave us — who are we, a generation so self-absorbed yet so full of our own virtue, that we should process the loss of him through our lens — but it was Wolfe himself who once observed, “Fortunately the world is full of people with information-compulsion who want to tell you their stories … They’re some of the greatest allies that any writer has.” To that end, maybe even Wolfe would have understood.

In his works and in his life, Wolfe was everything a typical millennial lacks. He wrote several books that were not only expansive and fresh but brilliant, articulate observations of American life. He loved America not with the simple patriotism of a member of the military but as one who enjoyed a profound fascination with her; a love affair that started as hippy love fest and ended at the ballet. Observant, articulate, inventive, bold, witty — but also humble, genteel, and polite. Who wouldn’t benefit from such traits?