“Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus, and we petty men Walk under his huge legs, and peep about To find ourselves dishonorable graves.” — Shakespeare, Julius Caesar
When I arrived at National Review on May 22, I found myself alone in the hallway outside the door. Despite explicit warnings not to, I had arrived well before 9 a.m., when the people with keys would show up to let me in. As I waited for the adults to arrive, I found myself face-to-face with the images of William F. Buckley Jr. speaking to an unseen crowd. Standing there face-to-face with the man whose world I was about to enter, I was awestruck.
Eleven weeks later, the awe does not fade. As my time with National Review comes to a close I find it nearly impossible to put into words what this experience has been like. There is so much to say, and so little digital room to say it.
I would be remiss if I did not start by thanking the people who work here day in and day out. The cast of characters upon which this institution revolves is a truly spectacular bunch to work alongside. Whether it was Phil Klein regaling us with some lore from his reporter days or Jeff Blehar enlightening the young’uns with his endless music references, the morning editorial calls made getting out of bed the most exciting part of the day. The editors, too, made each day exemplary: Jack Butler’s willingness to drag the best out of each word I wrote has made me a far better writer than I ever hoped to be (It almost made up for the fact he’s from Ohio. Almost). I remarked to someone on my first day in the office that I would have slept under a bridge for the chance to work here. For the chance to work with these folk, I would give up the bridge.
Of course, I was not alone in these endeavors. I am sure that I would have gotten along with any cast of people assembled next to me, but I was fortunate enough to be given the all-stars. My fellow interns helped make this office a world unto itself, and for someone as argumentative as I am, I am grateful for their willingness to engage. Before I started this internship, I wondered why it was important for me to travel to NYC when this could be done from home. Sahar, Alexander, Jonathan, and Natan are why.
To you, my dear readers (you happy few), I also want to say thanks. The freedom I had to write, whether the writing involved robot preachers or devilish credit cards, is only as good as it is appreciated, and so I hope I have imparted what little wisdom an intern holds onto you.
My lasting impression of National Review is one of purpose. When Buckley founded this magazine in 1955, he consecrated this institution with a mission: build a vibrant conservative movement that could protect the best America has to offer. Almost 70 years later, that mission has not changed. National Review remains athwart history yelling “Stop!” Buckley’s legacy continues to bestride this narrow world, and the shadow his colossus casts is as long as ever.
It has been an honor and a privilege to stand in it.