Even to this day, when I see a new horror movie come out, I think "Nina would have loved to see this" and I miss her all over again.

Nina, today we would have been somewhere watching the World Cup finals at a bar in Dc. I miss you dear friend. 

Wow. I don't know what prompted me to search for Nina online tonight, but I'm sorry to hear she has passed. I knew Nina Ayoub from The Chronicle when I worked there in the early 90s.
My fondest memory of her was not from The Chronicle, but from years later; we sat and watched a few films together at the DC International Film Festival, probably in 2000. If I recall correctly, at least one Bollywood film and one Turkish film. We weren't keeping in touch at the time, so must have run into each other randomly at the festival; I was glad we did.


Nina was a childhood friend in Yellow Springs, Ohio.  Even at age 9, her intelligence and directness set her apart.  I remember her laugh and her curls most of all.  Rest in peace, power and wisdom, Nina.

Every time I had the good fortune to speak to Nina on the phone or see her in person, I left her company feeling hopeful about the impact of the work we do. She is missed.

Of course, I first met Nina through books, as I somehow learned of the weekly book giveaway during my summer internship at The Chronicle in 1993. She was the little lady with the big cart and the messy office, and I was fascinated.

Later, during my reign as The Chronicle’s evening receptionist, Nina would bring me dinner on Wednesday night deadlines, and we’d sit and talk about movies and my college classes. I was grateful for the attention she paid the young little runt of the office, and I was excited as our friendship grew stronger and we would hang out outside of work.

She once caused a sensation at my college dorm, when she and Liz McMillen – these women in their MID-THIRTIES dressed in sleek black trench coats – arrived to pick me up for an evening of dancing and debauchery at a local club. As I was still underage, they accommodated my very sophisticated drink order – screwdrivers, mostly, with the occasional salty dog – all night long, and made sure I got home safely (although from what I recall, putting on the seatbelt of Nina’s ancient car, nicknamed Gran, was the most dangerous part of the evening). 

Later, we would all take road trips to New York for film premieres and late-night burgers and other fun. But just being in the car with Nina, singling along to profane Prince lyrics, was its own experience worth remembering. When I finally graduated college and got my first apartment in Washington, Nina gave me the best gift ever – the bestowal of the official brown velvet couch that had lived in Chronicle offices and homes for centuries. She pointed out its landmarks (the official Dedie Taylor Consciousness Raising Group Cigarette Burn) and instructed me to make my own memories. 

I am grateful that so many films and books and so much music and so many movie-theaters-turned-CVS-pharmacies will always remind me of Nina and our adventures together. I will miss her.


For many years I met regularly with Nina to talk about upcoming books on the Duke University Press list. She was always so engaged and so knowledgeable about what was going on in the university press community. Sometimes we'd joke about how hard it was to write one-sentence descriptions for our highly theoretical titles, but she always wrote great ones. Our authors were thrilled to be included in her weekly column. Working with Nina always felt like a collaboration; she had deep respect for everyone who worked in the university press world. Her column is already missed and she will be too. It was a pleasure to know her.

Nina was one of the first media contacts I met in person during my book publicity career. She was helpful, genuine, and kind. I will always cherish chatting about Portugal with her. 

I knew Nina briefly--I met with her only a couple of times when I was the publicist for UT Press--but our talks stayed with me. She intimidated me mightily the first time we met, but once I mentioned how much I had walked around DC that particular summer day she opened up a bit. She was one of the most generous and accessible editors I would meet with on my trips to NYC and DC and certainly the most wide ranging in her interests. I was sad to hear the news of her illness and passing and I send sympathy to her friends, colleagues, and family.

Nina was an incredibly special person. I  first go to know her when making publicity calls for Harvard University Press and then for Harvard Education Press. We spent a good portion of our meeting discussing recipes and travel. She was wonderful and will be missed. 

Some of my favorite times with Nina were impromptu encounters in the office on weekends. She would have the radio or a podcast going and endless piles of incoming galleys and finished books she was working her way through. We’d chat books or films or about recent travel before she’d turn back to her daunting task. Her tireless work ethic, wide-ranging curiosity, and passion for the world of ideas were always apparent, as was her tremendous sense of humor. I’ll miss her.

To say that Nina was a private person is an understatement. She guarded her personal life so much that it was sometimes intimidating to ask her questions. But somehow during our friendship, Nina shared special things about her with me that now I feel quite lucky to know. 

I didn't immediately befriend Nina because I always thought she was out of my intellectual league. I don't remember exactly how we became friends, but I do remember our first outing: I had an extra ticket to a DC United game and I approached Nina with it. She accepted.

I used to get jittery whenever she and I met for lunch at Nichola's because I didn't know if I was going to be up to par with her in our conversations, (You had to bring your A-game with Nina) but once we sat down and filled our plates with the you-can-eat-buffet, we both relaxed and enjoyed our time together. 

She and I enjoyed watching World Cup games every 4 years. She never ceased to amaze me with her knowledge of soccer, especially international soccer. Someone already said that she was an encyclopedia and I truly believe it. Coming back from an outing with Nina, it would only mean coming home with countless of new knowledge.  

I will always cherish our trips to the Korean Market on Saturdays, (Nina wanted to recreate Middle Eastern dishes her mother used to cook) our many happy hours at Nichola's, and the countless of books you graciously and generously saved for me. 

Nina, you were brilliant and One of a Kind. I raise my glass of sangria (like the countless we had) to celebrate your sui generis life. Salud!

In addition to being witty, warm (once she'd decided to let you know her a bit), and bracingly intelligent, Nina was principled. I admired her resistance to the contemporary forms of corporate tracking that most of us have given in to for the sake of convenience.  And when Nina disagreed with a policy or a political stance, she would argue against it passionately. 
Her work ethic was legendary -- but I remember fondly the day we snuck out early to catch a movie.  I'll miss her.


I was lucky to sit next to Nina during her last years at The Chronicle. She had a wicked sense of humor, and somehow knew where any given book (out of the hundreds stacked up in and outside her office) was at any moment. She probably read half of them, too! Occasionally she'd set one aside for me, usually having to do with Italy. My favorite sits on my kitchen shelf, and reminds me of her: The Encyclopedia of Pasta.
 
Nina was an encyclopedia herself. When she signed off on one of my pages at the wall, I knew it was solid. I'm so glad I got to know such a funny and interesting and smart colleague, and so sorry to hear the sad news.
 
With deepest sympathy, 
Carolyn Mooney


As someone who helped bring order out of the mild chaos of a newsroom for many years, Nina was a gift to us all. And her company was a quiet joy.  She was so worth knowing, but so private, that when she'd open up to you at all, you exulted within. 
What's more, as a person who cultivated more than a few passions of her own, she indulged me by putting aside books that mentioned Buffalo. 

One of the first things I noticed about Nina is that her job as books editor at The Chronicle of Higher Education entailed pushing a cart loaded with hundreds of books around the newsroom. How she had the strength to do that, and to unwrap and lift and stack all those books, I always wondered. Yet the physical demands of her work were insignificant compared with the intellectual labor she put into studying each volume so she could summarize it well for her weekly list of the latest scholarly books.

It was fitting that books on anthropology usually appeared at the top of those lists, which were ordered alphabetically by subject. Nina’s parents were both anthropologists, and as a child she accompanied them on field trips to the Middle East.

Anyone who knew Nina well understood what an intellectual force she was and how wide-ranging her interests were: among them, film, good food, travel, music, academic publishing, civil liberties, and historic Supreme Court decisions. Her encyclopedic knowledge might make you think she had absorbed the information in each and every book that crossed her desk.

One of her great joys in life, she told me, was to match books with the people who would most appreciate them. All of Nina’s friends and colleagues are likely to find in their homes books that will serve to remind them of her concern and generosity.

Nina, there was no one like you, and you will be greatly missed.


As a longtime colleague at The Chronicle, I will admit to being a little intimidated by Nina: her depth of knowledge, her rich, original interpretations of literature and art. But she was unassuming and kind. She inspired me to engage less fleetingly with topics and work of interest. I send my sympathy to her family and friends.

I don’t remember much about my first tour of The Chronicle’s offices, a banal ritual of warm but awkward introductions. But 15 years later, I do remember meeting Nina. What stands out from that day isn’t so much Nina herself -- she was kind, somewhat skittish, and plainly eager to turn back to her work -- but her desk. Every surface and most of the surrounding floor was covered with teetering towers of books and galleys. 

As my tour guide shuffled me along he explained that Nina was the Chronicle’s books editor. For decades she had single-handedly produced the Scholarly Book List, once a Chronicle mainstay. The list was a curated compendium of new books published in a broad range of disciplines. To compile the list, I would later learn, Nina would comb through stacks of publisher catalogs and a dizzying array of books, which arrived daily by the binful. She was meticulous about every detail -- author’s name, page count, list price, synopsis. Years later, I would become her editor; I can’t recall ever catching an error or running a correction.

If Nina were here to read this, I suspect she’d be mortified. She always struck me as an intensely private woman. Unless you worked directly with her or she had cultivated a friendship with you, it was hard to know her. And even then, she remained something of a mystery. 

A publication is a reflection of the sensibilities, eccentricities, and talents of the people who make it. For decades, Nina’s book list was part of what made The Chronicle distinctive. It was also a weekly testament to the richness and eclecticism of the world of academic research. A typical installment of the incisive, often drily amusing list might might include an ethnography of Mexicans living in Alaska, a critical study of the films of Clint Eastwood, and book on the role of women in the Civil War. 

It was sophisticated, cosmopolitan, and strange. Just like Nina. 

(A version of this remembrance will appear in the next print issue of The Chronicle.)

Nina was four years younger than me, and was my ‘baby’ cousin. Her mother was my mother’s younger sister. I remember when Nina was born and my aunt Milah and uncle Victor brought her to our house, just a month or two old, wrapped in a blanket. As she lived in Ohio (when not in Lebanon/Syria) and we lived just outside NYC, visits were both rare and exciting. As children, as soon as we were together, we became partners in crime, chasing each other around the house laughing. Bedtime was similar: she slept in a cot next to mine and we stayed up late (8:30pm?) giggling until commanded by our mothers to go to sleep. After high school I went to California and bummed around for a while. At some point I decided to hitch hike back to NY, and thought it would be nice to ‘drop in’ on Nina and Victor in Antioch. It didn’t occur to me to telephone in advance. Nina would later laugh about what a shock it was to find me lounging on their front lawn, with my long hair and bell bottoms, as they pulled up into their driveway in the evening! (My uncle bought me a bus ticket for the rest of the trip home.)
As we grew older we saw each other less frequently, but it was always important to me that we shared important life events, including our weddings and my children's bar/bat mitzvahs.  When my wife Jill threw me a surprise 50th birthday party, i was overjoyed to find Nina had come.  Since then we saw each other a few times, and stayed in touch via email. It felt helpless to watch her struggle against her illness, but she was a fighter to the end. I will always cherish the happy and sweet memories I have of her. Rest In Peace dear cousin. 


Nina had a rich and contagious laugh that I will always remember. As a cousin through marriage, I enjoyed spending time with her and family, attending her wedding, and sharing time with Filipe, and her father, Victor,  at our family events, including weddings, family birthdays and our childrens' bat and bar mitzvahs. She seemed to really enjoy spending time with family, and it was great when she'd join us. I would often visit DC on business trips, and Nina and I would meet for dinner which was always a lot of fun. We found a lot to talk about and laugh about.  It's hard to imagine she is no longer here with us. I will miss her. 

I first met Nina in 2003 at a preview screening for the Australian Zombie film Undead, where we somehow got to talking.

I remarked to her that I'd liked “Undead” because it was free of the obnoxious left-wing politics that so often infect zombie films, beginning with the progenitor of all that came after, "Night of the Living Dead".  She said politics were among the things she liked best about zombie flicks.  And so began 17 years of conversations about a myriad of shared interests from politics to horror flicks to gourmet foods.

Nina had a voracious curiosity about the world, as befitted her job as books editor for a journal of higher education, and she liked to argue, almost too much! Our political differences never got in the way of our friendship, but they did fascinate her, and every time I’d drive her to a film (I always drove) it was a great opportunity for her to interrogate about it. “So what’s the deal? Do you think that poor people should starve?  Should women who get abortions go to jail?”  It was all exhausting in the best possible way.

And then there was Nina’s protestant work ethic that saw her always logging extra hours at the office in order to do justice to the authors of the books she covered.  She was the same conscientious professional when she edited my fast-food blog.  Getting to collaborate with her in that way was a real honor and privilege.  She always caught at least a large handful of grammatical errors and always left the pieces clearer and more focused than she found them.  I also enjoyed her caustic comments, as when she caught me somewhat awkwardly trying to alternate between male and female generic pronouns in an attempt at inclusivity.   She said something along the lines of “you don’t support a woman’s right to bodily autonomy but you’re worried about generic female pronouns?”

It’s hard to believe and accept that there won’t be any more such back and forths.  She was a real character and a true friend.  I’ll miss her very much.

I was very sorry to learn of Nina's death. I worked with her for 18 years at The Chronicle, and her friendship meant a great deal.

OBITUARY

Nina Cary Ayoub

18 December, 1957 – 21 December, 2020

Murphy Funeral Homes

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