The new authorized William F. Buckley Jr. bio by Sam Tanenhaus is taking a lot of criticism from people who knew and admired WFB. For Buckley on evolution, see here. Actually, I’m enjoying the book very much so far, but I am prepared to start joining the critics as I read further.

Bill Buckley was the greatest man to whom I’ve had the opportunity to become close — although as a young editor at National Review, unfortunately, I was too shy to attempt to do so. That was my fault, not his. I wish I could go back in time and advise my younger self to get over my own timidity. Too late now. But I will share three memories.

A Grand Home

You can see photos of his grand and historic home, Great Elm in Connecticut, on Zillow. I was there twice, and I recognize the scene. The first time was for an overnight sailing trip across Long Island Sound. There were four men, two older including Buckley, and two younger including me. It was a long evening. After dinner and drinks, all but me jumped naked off the side of the boat for a night swim. The two younger were not fully able to handle our liquor. The first (not me) vomited over the side of the boat. The second (me) woke up just before dawn with terrifying heart palpitations. Around dawn, it turned out the boat had run aground on the Long Island shore, and we had to be rescued by the Coast Guard. 

In the morning, we sailed back to Connecticut, and I was very close to seasick. I’m sure I appeared green. I came up on deck and Bill assured me that it was OK. He told me a story about how on some sea adventure another man fell into the deep water with him and he swam with the other person, holding him up to keep him from drowning. To save the other man from panicking and endangering himself further, Buckley sang to him. He sang to him. I believe the singing saved the drowning man’s life. It is a very sweet image.

On our returning to Great Elm, there was breakfast and a shower (again, a naked group activity, as the shower room had multiple heads, first hot water then a cold plunge). I understood this as some sort of New England prep school cultural practice, which was lost on my Southern California public school self.

The Fragmented Object

On a later occasion, at an editorial meeting in New York a little after 10 o’clock on a Monday morning, Buckley handed around the conference room table a small yellowish wooden object. He explained that he had been down on a submersible voyage to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean to view the remains of the Titanic. Just a handful of people had done so at the time The fragmented object was what was left of a yellow lead pencil, taken down by some passenger aboard the doomed ship. I was able for a moment to touch and hold the item, which still strikes me as sacred.

Finally, later, I recall a book review he gave me which he had written, when I was the literary editor at NR. I don’t remember the title of the book under review, but of course, brilliant writer that he was, there was little or nothing for me to do by way of improving it. It was some afternoon at the NR offices, now transferred from E. 35th Street to, around the corner, Lexington Avenue. It happened that we were both in the restroom on a hallway at the same time. He asked me in a friendly way, “Oh, did you get my book review?”

I said I had, and affirmed that it was in the editorial pipeline as, needless to say, it would be. He asked, “And did you like it?” I had liked it, but had neglected to say so. I said, “Yes, yes, I did!” I realized something then that has stuck me with over the years. Great people, no less than ordinary people, like to have their work, and themselves, appreciated. And we all are grateful to have this articulated to us.