When the terrible sad news of Bill Buckley's death came, I reached for my folder of letters we'd exchanged over the years. It's a thick file, and it makes me well up a bit to realize that I can expect no more bright while envelopes with the familiar blue lettering.
That Bill should have taken notice of me at all was a bit incongruous. By the time I was old enough to write to him -- the 1970s when I was in high school -- he was a world-renowned public intellectual. Yet he took the time to answer a girl's letter. The entire neighborhood must have known that something unusual had happened at 11 Tiffany Drive after the mail was delivered because I was soaring like a kite. Bill did that for literally thousands of people over the years -- it was an aspect of his incredible generosity of spirit.
I was at first drawn to Bill Buckley's columns by a love for words. Anyone who could send me to the dictionary on a regular basis had my attention. But dipping into the Buckley oeuvre proved highly addictive. Before long, I was absorbing far more than new vocabulary. I began to read National Review, which marked me as a bit of an eccentric in a liberal place like New Jersey. Like most ardent Buckleyphiles, I turned first to "Notes & Asides" when NR arrived and savored exchanges like this one reproduced in Bill's book "Cancel Your Own Goddam Subscription":
September 23, 1969
Dear Mr. Buckley,
Your syntax is horrible.
Ron Kelly,
Mattoon, Ill.
Dear Mr. Kelly: If you had my syntax you'd be rich. Cordially, WFB
On another occasion, he published a mash note from a 16-ish young lady who professed her desire to marry him. He replied (I quote from memory), "I'm spoken for, but you might give Justice William O. Douglas a try." (At the age of 67, Douglas had married a 23-year-old law student.)
Continued... |