Today, February 27, marks the 15th anniversary of William F. Buckley’s death.
Time moves quickly. I was 15 in 2008 and knew nothing of the man whose name would someday form the title I bear (the weight of glory) as a fellow at the institution, National Review, that Bill loved so dearly. The closest he and I came to meeting was through Robin Williams’s impersonation of WFB in Disney’s Aladdin. Will another public intellectual ever again command such appreciation in popular culture?
The best the Dominic Pinos, Luther Abels, and Caroline Downeys of the office can hope for is to corner a Jay Nordlinger or a Rich Lowry and inquire, “What was Buckley like?” — a line of questioning those who knew him best suffer gladly, sharing recollections that thousands of others have demanded of them.
Since I haven’t figured out a way to digitize Jay Nordlinger (yet), may I offer Christopher “Christo” Buckley’s recollections of his dad as they appeared in the Daily Beast one year after WFB’s death:
Jose Martí famously said that a man must do three things in life: write a book, plant a tree, have a son. I don’t know that my father ever planted a tree. Surely whole forests, whole eco-systems were put to the axe on his account. But he did plant a lot of seeds and many of them, grown to fruition, are here today. Quite a harvest, that.
It’s not easy coming up with an epitaph for such a man. I was tempted by something Mark Twain once said, “Homer’s dead, Shakespeare’s dead, and I myself am not feeling at all well.”
Years ago, he gave an interview to Playboy Magazine. Asked why he did this, he couldn’t resist saying, “In order to communicate with my 16-year old son.” At the end of the interview, he was asked what he would like for an epitaph and he replied, “ ‘I know that my Redeemer liveth.’” Only Pup could manage to work the Book of Job into a Hugh Hefner publication.
I finally settled on one, and I’ll say the words over his grave at sunset today in Sharon, as we lay him to rest. They’re from a poem he knew well, each line of which, indeed, seemed to have been written just for him:
Under the wide and starry sky Dig the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live, and gladly die. And I lay me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be. Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill.
You can read the rest here.
Christopher Buckley’s Losing Mum and Pup, a memoir of his parents’ deaths, is worth reading and rereading. Some dislike the book because of its perceived flippancy, but I vociferously disagree with such an interpretation. Christopher captures the barbed wire of emotions — the tragicomedy — as the dying and the offspring come to terms with the end. Death is seldom a graceful event.
Then, there’s Larry Perelman’s peerless “Last Supper with WFB.”
Perelman writes:
I have recently returned from Stamford, where I had been scheduled to play Beethoven’s Diabelli Variations for WFB and his friends on Wednesday night. Instead, I found myself sitting down to write this tribute to my dear friend and mentor. He knew well that he was the most important person in my life after the two people who had actually given me life. I will cherish hundreds of memories of his boundless acts of generosity, which changed my life forever.
Bill and I had dinner on Tuesday, the night before he passed away. I have chosen to write about this because I’d like for his family, friends, colleagues, and readers to know that it was just like any other Buckley dinner — i.e., it started with cocktails and ended with cognac.
I arrived at Bill’s at about six in the evening in order to run through the performance I was to give the following night. Bill and I had a tradition where he would choose the next work for me to learn and perform for National Review editors and friends. Over the years, I have played at least a dozen recitals, featuring Bach’s majestic C-minor partita, the heart-wrenching E-minor partita, Beethoven’s Tempest Sonata, as well as the last three Beethoven Sonatas, among other pieces.
I left my bags in the appointed room and approached the music room’s doors with trepidation, as I had heard that Bill wasn’t feeling well — but knew he might have ventured for a meal to this room he so adored. I heard his oxygen machine roaring over the sounds of the evening news on the projection television. Opening the door, I saw Bill tinkering with the remote control, a soda and a mixed drink with orange juice on the table nearby. The music room has a glorious harpsichord and a large sofa, and its walls are lined with bookcases all around, save for the large windows offering breathtaking views of Long Island Sound.
I gently placed my hand on Bill’s shoulder and he looked up. In his trademark style, he uttered “Hey buddy,” a salutation his friends know well. I replied, “Hi Bill, it’s great to be back.” He immediately asked what I’d like to drink and I chose red wine. He rang the kitchen staff to bring the wine. Dinner had officially begun. I made myself comfortable on the couch next to Bill and we chatted about some odds and ends.
My mother, Celia, and I had ventured out to Bill’s last week so that I could “premiere” the Diabelli Variations for Bill and members of his family. He loved this piece and convinced me to learn it after an initial hesitancy on my part. I mentioned to Bill what an honor it was for me to perform it for him, and he conveyed his delight and noted the impression that my “sweet” mother had made on the gathering.
The first course arrived and it was simply red caviar and crème fraîche on toasted baguette. Bill inquired, “Would you like some vodka?” I replied in the affirmative. Bill then raised his shot glass and I mine, which followed with a clink and swift consumption of the perfectly chilled vodka. I found it incredible that here we were toasting with chilled vodka while watching news footage of the New York Philharmonic’s visit to one of the last vestiges of communism.
My parents and family fled the Soviet Union in the 1970s and I was the first American-born child in my family. I wrote to Bill at the age of 18 expressing my gratitude to him for having emboldened Soviet Jews to come to this great nation, and asking for the opportunity to express my gratitude to him by playing the piano. Now, here we were, 14 years later, toasting to all good things with vodka and red caviar. It was very special and soon our glasses were refilled.
You can read the rest here.
R.I.P.