Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Thanks for everything, Bill

When the phone rang early on February 28th, not only did I know who it was, I knew why he was calling.


"Good morning, Andrew," I said, while getting the coffee machine going with my other hand.


"Good morning, Commander," he replied. "Sad news, isn't it?"


"Indeed," I agreed.


And indeed it was. The death of William F Buckley, Jr., had been announced the previous day. I didn't know him, but Andrew and his family had known him, albeit distantly, for years.


Bill was the acceptable face of conservatism. His ideas and beliefs were the result of a rigorous process of thought and an encyclopaedic knowledge of history, philosophy and theology.


No self-righteous neo-con, Bill had a social conscience as well as his conservative principles. If he was 'the scourge of American liberalism,' as Arthur M. Schlesinger Jr. called him, it was because he exposed the flaws in the logic of liberal populists. Bill was the scourge of sloppy thought and lax language wherever he found it, left, right or center.


Amazingly, English was his third language. Few can achieve the command of English as a first language that Bill had, and one can only speculate what being on the receiving end of his Spanish or French must have been like.


What enabled Bill to endure, win new admirers, if not converts, and continue to be widely read and respected was his humor and wit.


Few of our generation will forget his performance on Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In where he spontaneously parried well aimed lances and barbs, delighting the audience and inquisitors alike.


Unlike many - most - celebrity politicians and writers, Bill was no one-trick pony. He succeeded in personal appearances, on television and in print. The subjects of his non-fiction ranged widely; his novels are eminently entertaining, and his thousands of articles provided a contrapuntal continuum for two generations.


He enjoyed being a gadfly and knew that he would probably not succeed in elected office, rightly evaluating his chances at the polls.


"He liked your writing," Andrew said.


"I never wrote anything for him," I replied.


"No, but you ghost-wrote enough for me. When he read the stuff in Atlantic, he knew I hadn't written it," Andrew said. "He asked me who did."


"What did you tell him?" I asked, curious that I had never had an invitation to write for National Review.


"I wouldn't tell him," Andrew said.


"Bastard! Why not?"


"I needed you to write for me."


Well, it might have been Bill's loss, but probably not. I wrote to him once, though. I was in my first or second year at college and was enjoying my subscription to NR and antagonizing my professors - after all, it was 1967. I sent him a letter suggesting that he take up novel writing. I was, at the time, enjoying Evelyn Waugh and thought WFB could do something similar and contemporary for America.


He wrote back. A short note on NR paper saying that he'd thought about it, but was afraid to. Unfortunately for me, the note doesn't refer to novel writing but stands vaguely alone.


"Well," Andrew said, "when it gets to lunchtime over there, raise a glass to him."

"No fear."

Requiescat in pace

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