RECALLING THE LIFE AND PERSONALITY OF WILLIAM F. BUCKLEY, JR.
28 February 2008William F. Buckley Jr. died yesterday in his 83rd year at his country house in Stamford, Connecticut. I didn’t know Mr. Buckley although I met him in passing a couple of times. I knew his late wife Pat just a little bit better because we had a close mutual friend — John Galliher (See List in Memoriam). Mrs. Buckley was a charmer; arch, droll, with a kind of zany presence which no doubt was presented to lighten things up. She was adored by her many friends, and to meet her was to want to know her. I was introduced to her husband a couple of times and each meeting was entirely perfunctory in terms of charm (none) and cordiality (none).
September 17th, 1974. Photos: Jill Krementz.
When I was a young man in the 1960s he loomed large and impressively on the so-called intellectual scene as viewed through the eyes of a college boy. It was well known that he was very religious (Roman Catholic) and very Conservative. He and Gore Vidal were arch-rivals and enjoyed or employed (or both) a lawsuit (I can’t remember who sued whom) that brought both of them a stream of national publicity and attention on the still relatively new medium of television.
I think, during a debate, after some shin-kicking-like goading, he opened fire and called Vidal a “goddamn queer” or something like that. Whatever it was, the acerbic and (could be) bitchy Vidal unnerved him thoroughly, or at least for the sake of the camera. In truth both boys came from privilege and were well educated. Both wrote and published successfully and with much fanfare. And both occupied specific ends (opposite) of the political spectrum, about which both felt they were right. Don’t we all?
Somewhere in those troubled (Viet Nam War) times I read a quote of Mr. Buckley’s about how the people in Harlem disposed of their garbage by “air-mailing” it from the nearest window. Whether he knew this from first hand experience or imagined it from first hand intolerance, I’m not sure but the remark was distinctly racist and, and made him appear, to put it , in his parlance — at least in my eyes — a bore.
His industriousness and his intellectual pursuits created a lasting memorial to his times and himself — the National Review. His television show was popular for years and not slightly because of his ability to speak frankly even if, albeit at times, insultingly of others. His career as a pundit, a writer, a novelist, was prolific, sometimes poetic in content, sometimes clever. He loved to write, to converse, to sail, and to drink. With his wife, and perhaps often because of his charming wife, his family wealth and media prominence notwithstanding, he retained a certain élan in New York social circles, sought after, even if mainly disinterested; and unfailingly curious about the political world around him.
He was at the beginning a rich man’s son. Unlike many rich men’s sons, he used his patrimony to cultivate and develop his own interests. His results was a most definite, and at times even powerful sphere of political interest and opinion. Late in his life he took up some opinions and even causes of the Liberal persuasion, arguing, for example, for the legalization of drugs as an alternative to this Orwellian gargoyle-like bureaucracy that rules today. He also became convinced that our foray into the Middle East, namely Iraq was an utter failure that should be put aside as soon as possible.
It was a good life, a long life, a life well lived, surrounded by legions of admirers and devoted friends, and productive by the man’s own standards. Another mutual friend, the distinguished photo-journalist Jill Krementz, has shared some of her photos of the man with us.
WHEN IRISH HANDS ARE SQUEEZIN
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