The other night I had the wonderful opportunity to see one of my literary heroes—though Maira Kalman would probably refrain from describing herself as either literary or heroic.

The author/illustrator of the amazingly imaginative, incredibly charming (and very funny) children's books such as What Pete Ate and Chicken Soup Boots (an amazing tale of the possibilities of what you might be when you grow up), and Next Stop, Grand Central, Kalman is a major presence on my daughter’s bookshelf. Her next kids' book will be a collaboration with Lemony Snicket (aka Daniel Handler).

As the creator of memorable New Yorker covers like “New Yorkistan,” and books for grownups including The Illustrated Elements of Style, she takes up a lot of space in my library, too.

I was feeling a little blue on the day I learned she was going to be lecturing, and I rearranged everything to be there for her talk. She did not disappoint. In describing her work, she said, “Everything I do is the product of a mistake or just a journal of my life. This is what happened today. Sometimes it’s interesting, sometimes it’s not.” To wit: her argument of the limits of a grilled cheese sandwich.

The way Kalman works is of another time, another era, and that’s another reason to love it. She does nothing on the computer. In fact, she even types captions for her paintings on pieces of brown paper bags she has saved. It’s all very old-school, cut and paste.

As print is supplanted by online, her tactile, handmade approach to content warms my heart, but what I like most about Kalman is her outlook on life. Both on paper and in real life, she says things like, “It’s a miracle anyone gets up in the morning and does anything” and “We are overwhelmed. We need something to eat.” She describes herself quite aptly as an “optimistic despairer.” She would most certainly agree with the thesis of Barbara Ehrenreich’s new book, Bright-Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America, because she understands that we need the bad to appreciate the good.

I think, too, that Kalman reminds me a bit of my mother, Carol, who used to make pronouncements at the dinner table like, ”Well, we won’t be eating with the Queen tonight!”—a comment perfectly suited to Kalman’s enigmatic pages.

I keep a stack of books by my bed. Usually when I’ve finished one, I move it to the bookshelf. But not The Principles of Uncertainty. It remains by my bedside always...though I can't look it at too often. I can't quite explain it, but the effect of her words and pictures is often too much to bear. After Kalman’s lecture, I told her, “Every time I pick this book up, it always makes me cry.” She replied, “Me, too.”