Donald, alongside his brother, Si, was the soul of Condé Nast. They shared many enthusiasms but were different in spirit: Si retiring and reflective, Donald all outward-shining light. You reveled in Donald’s company, his energy and humor, and he was the person you wanted to see when you felt doubtful or weak. He was scrupulous about not interfering in the editorial side of his business—the newspaper arm of Advance Publications, Condé Nast’s parent company—but if you turned to him for counsel he invariably offered smart and sensible advice.

Donald was naturally given to service: to the industry and the company, but even more to those who worked at Advance. I can’t recall his once asking me for anything, and yet he regularly inquired whether I needed assistance from him. His mix of humility and strength, his willingness to step aside while also being at hand for help, is rare in leadership. It is the reason why so many people have relished working for the Newhouses. Donald imbued Advance with spirit, ambition, trust, and real care for people. He made it an exciting place to be.

It was clear to all of us that Donald’s professional life, as generous and outwardly directed as it seemed, was sustained by an incredible marriage. He and Susie were wed when he was twenty-six—she was already a college graduate at nineteen—and their infatuation lasted sixty years. I remember visiting Donald at the farm where he moved after she died in 2015, following a struggle with frontotemporal degeneration. The house was filled with photographs of her, and he had landscaped a garden in her honor. Their children were always the center of his world. During the years after Susie’s death, Donald committed to the Association for Frontotemporal Degeneration and arranged for stars like Alex Newell and Joshua Henry to sing “If You Knew Susie” at its annual Hope Rising benefit. When the song began, Donald—in his eighties, and then in his nineties—always stood and danced. It was a way of welcoming the world into the family that he loved. That was his way.

Donald, who never showed any signs of fussiness or pretension, adored the outdoors: he loved to walk, to fish, to work outside. Whenever I visited, he insisted on taking me for a spin in his Morgan convertible, the top open. He needed no excuse for hope. “I hope you’ve got my hundredth birthday saved on your calendar,” he liked to tell me. So I do. Whenever my thoughts run to him, I think of my luck. When Si was ill and nearing the end of his life, Donald would go to visit him. He would sit beside his brother and simply hold his hand. That’s the emblematic image of Donald to me: there when you needed him, offering warmth, strength, and support. It’s heartbreaking that he is not here to lead me—all of us—through this loss.