Life with Bill, Part I

Revisiting William F. Buckley Jr.

Photo by Marcel Eberle on Unsplash

One of the most common “pegs” for a piece of journalism—or even a book—is an anniversary. This can be a cheap peg, too. Why is one year more important than another? If someone is worth writing about, he is worth writing about, whatever the calendar says.

For years, I have said that the music business is afflicted by “anniversaryitis.” This business is practically organized around anniversaries.

(I’m talking about classical music, I should say.)

This year is a “Ravel year.” Why? Because Maurice Ravel was born in 1875, 150 years ago. Therefore, it is his sesquicentennial.

We also have centennials this year (as we do every year). Recently, I have written about Pierre Boulez and Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau—both born in 1925.

Who else was born in 1925? Well, William F. Buckley Jr. I have written about him fairly often over the years (and refer to him regularly). I first wrote about him in February 1997, in a review for The Weekly Standard, where I was then working.

That launched our correspondence, and our friendship.

I wrote about him—some memoiristic things—right after he died, here. And I wrote a biggish piece about him last year, here (“WFB: Big, and Glorious”). If you’re interested in a speech about him—lasts about 45 minutes—I have one of those.

He was a national figure, yes, and even a world figure. But he was also, to me, a friend—one of the best friends I ever had. He was utterly unique.

Should the word “unique” be qualified? No. If you’re unique, you’re unique—and everyone is unique, really. But can we agree that some are uniquer than others?

(You object to the word “uniquer”? Well, Bill said you can play with the language, if you know it.)

At first we wrote letters, via snail mail. That ended shortly, and we e-mailed. He was WBUCKLEY/0001210059@MCIMAIL.COM. I was JNords@aol.com.

(Some friends of mine, way back, called me “Jay Nords.” One of those friends set up my AOL account—my being a techno-ignoramus, as now. Hence the e-address.)

Later, both Bill and I had nationalreview.com addresses.

William F. Buckley Jr. in 1979 (Roger Ressmeyer / CORBIS, via Wikimedia)

Many years ago—15 years ago?—I printed out many of the e-mails we had exchanged over the years. In some stretches, we e-mailed daily. I took them home. Those papers are a big stack. I thought I might look at them one day.

I did not look at them until last week.

Whole years are missing—2002, for example. Not sure why. Some techno-glitch. Anyway, it matters not.

I have long said, “My least favorite street is Memory Lane.” That is a strange thing for a history-minded person to say—and for a person who has written histories himself. But it is my least favorite street (or can be) where personal history is concerned.

Still, I mainly enjoyed flipping through that stack of e-mails, and I’m going to publish some, in a series here at Onward and Upward. Fragments, concerning this or that. They will provide glimpses of the man as I knew him.

Nothing too personal—from his side or mine. We both experienced some deep waters in the years we knew each other. Some of our correspondence cannot be for publication.

But much of it can. I know he would agree—know it to a certainty—and, well: I agree too.

One thing surprised me—sort of startled me—as I flipped through our correspondence: how often we gushed at each other. And how freely we gushed at each other.

This will rub some people the wrong way. Well, so be it.

I think of a phrase from my grandmother: “loveship.” Bill and I had a loveship, as well as a friendship. (And my loveship with my grandmother was one for the ages.) (With my other grandmother as well.)

Some people won’t like my series tout court (as Bill might say). They’ll say it’s braggy, for one thing. Show-offy. There was a time I would have cared. That time is long past.

My degree of caring could not be detected by the Hubble telescope.

I value a note sent to me by a onetime colleague a few weeks ago:

Loving your newsletter [meaning Onward and Upward]. So great. Joyful even if the analysis is clear and unsparing. It’s nice to detect joy here and there in this strange world. It is “NR” to me, in the sense that “NR” to me is a spirit, a way of being, not a magazine or website.

(For the uninitiated: “NR” stands for “National Review,” the magazine that Bill Buckley founded in 1955 and where I worked from 1998 until earlier this year.)

When Bill died, in 2008, more than a few people urged me to write a book—a book about our friendship. I demurred. I thought some people would resent it. A colleague said to me, “But you own your life. You have your own experience, and you’re entitled to write about it.”

In any event, I did not.

But I thought my “centennial appreciation” would take the form of this peculiar series—some e-mails, or fragments of them, exchanged over the years. (Now that I think about it, I probably learned this technique from Bill. When someone died, Bill would often publish correspondence from that person. He devoted a whole book to letters from Whittaker Chambers: Odyssey of a Friend.)

I will go in chronological order—the lazy way out. To go by themes—“Politics,” “Music,” “Family”—would be more demanding. But the chronological is not a bad order ...

Hang on, I have written a long introductory note. I’m at column length already. Should I begin my series—notes from Bill—tomorrow? No, might as well get started now. I’ll give you a few—some tastes—and then resume.

***

I had known Bill for almost two years but did not start working at National Review until late 1998. (I should say: I had known Bill and Pat for almost two years—Pat being Mrs. Buckley. Patricia Taylor Buckley. Who merits a series—a long, fascinating, dramatic series—of her own.)

On December 16, 1998 (Beethoven’s birthday, by the way), Bill wrote,

My baptism in working with you was truly—wonderful.

That is a typical sentence from Bill—so him.

***

About a writer we were going to publish:

He is inherently a bureaucrat, his use of language rather pompous. But his cause is v. important.

(In this series, I will clean up Bill’s typing, to a degree. But sometimes I will leave it raw—just for entertainment value. Sometimes, Bill’s hands were misplaced on the keyboard, and what came out was gibberish. Might have been Welsh.) (No offense to that fine people.)

***

From Switzerland, in February ’99:

Dear Jay: I so much appreciate the update and the this and that, which makes an enormous difference to me. ... Am handicapped at the moment by a most awful cold, including high temperature. ... I hope you won’t read the McCarthy book until the final copy comes in. Warmest to you both, XXB

(“Both” refers to my wife and me. “The McCarthy book” refers to The Redhunter: A Novel Based on the Life of Senator Joe McCarthy.)

***

The next day:

I am 10 per cent better today, which is not enough. ... I find I have to go to bed once an hour. I take it that would have been convenient for you during the Balanchine. Your sentiments are mine exactly, and I really do appreciate those who exult in the art, because their transport is genuine!

I must have been to a ballet choreographed by George Balanchine, and I must not have cared for it. I also must have said (something like): “I am not really sold on ballet in general. I admire the artistry, the athleticism—all of it—but ballet does not really speak to me. I’m glad it does to multitudes, though!”

(In later years, I became a genuine balletomane.) (Although some Balanchine still eludes me, and probably always will.)

***

Two days later:

So VERY grateful for the info. [No idea what the info was.] Especially since I truly feel like dying. Never in my life felt so bad. ... Hard at work, to the extent possible with my disease. Ora pro nobis.

(The last phrase means “Pray for us.”)

***

A few days later:

You sound wonderful. “Elektra” must have got to you. (I continue sick, alas.)

(Evidently, I had seen a good performance of Strauss’s opera.)

***

A few days after that:

I managed to read yours on racism and the campaign yesterday in my slough of despair. It is marvelous work, deeply and sadly edifying.

Hmmm. Maybe I had written about the presidential primaries in each party?

***

June 15, 1999:

We have a ton of writers who handle that subject. [So-and-so], of course, but he is a little ... pesado [Spanish for “heavy,” or, in this instance, “ponderous”]. ... Have to sign off, bloody radio interview.

***

On David Pryce-Jones, about whom I had written Bill:

He sounds simply superb. Tout court.

Was he ever.

Maybe that is enough at one go? Sorry about that long introductory note. We’ll jump right back in tomorrow. Thank you so much for reading, and subscribing, and generally giving a rip.