Martin Morse Wooster started a peculiar tradition years ago: Whenever he spotted a “John Miller” in the news, he let me know. Early on, he sent clips by regular mail, cut from the pages of his prodigious reading. At some point, the emails outnumbered the stamped envelopes. Along the way, I learned about hordes of people with whom I share a name. They included loads of criminals and at least one person who attended a Star Trek convention as a Klingon.
I’m sorry to say that I’ll never again receive one of these notices: Martin died on November 12, killed in a hit-and-run accident in Virginia.
I met Martin almost exactly 30 years ago. I was new to Washington, D.C., having just graduated from the University of Michigan. I’d seen Martin’s byline in Reason, the libertarian magazine, but now I spotted it in the Washington Post, where he wrote about science fiction. I was a fan of the genre, so I looked him up and proposed that we get dinner. He suggested a particular Chinese restaurant. When we met, he explained that he patronized it because the owners were opposed to the Commies in Beijing. Mostly we talked about books by William Gibson, Neal Stephenson, and the like. When I referred to them as “sci-fi” authors, he corrected me: The preferred reference, he insisted, was “SF.”
We became friends. In recent years, our conversations tended to take place by email. He was a fan of the Baltimore Orioles. When they played my team, the Detroit Tigers, he pinged me with questions: Does Miguel Cabrera have any gas left in his tank? (Sadly, no.) Who is the best catcher in Tigers history? (Maybe Bill Freehan.) Should Lou Whitaker be in the Hall of Fame? (YES!) We had similar exchanges involving the Maryland Terrapins and the Michigan Wolverines.
Martin and I shared another interest: philanthropy. He devoted much of his professional life to the study of it — and especially to the problem of donor intent, which is to say, the way in which so many foundations have betrayed the visions of the people who started them, often abandoning commitments to free enterprise for collectivism. He wrote articles, research papers, and his books. I covered the field as a journalist, writing for National Review and other publications. We often compared observations and posed oddball questions to each other. Just now, I unearthed this relic of our friendship. He was searching for the source of a quote. I put it to readers of The Corner, who collectively know everything.
My writing on philanthropy culminated in a book, A Gift of Freedom: How the John M. Olin Foundation Changed America. This gave birth to another of Martin’s habits: Whenever he saw a reference to my book, even as just a footnote, he let me know. The latest arrived a few weeks ago. I think it was Martin’s way of saying that my writing mattered — an act of kindness that might even be a form of philanthropy.
There may be a lot of John Millers out there, but there only ever will be one Martin Morse Wooster.