AItMost March

was myUncommon
7,freshman
2008,Man7:51
yearpmat Yale. I was fresher than most and from Nebraska so ju
st about
Mr. Cecileverything
Lang, my English
I saw, teacher,
heard andended
did that
a class
yearone
astonished
day withme.the words, You mig
ht want to drop by the Law School tonight. A man I consider one of the most dang
erous menwasinaAmerica
Onstage tall, interesting-looking
is lecturing there.manI unlike
went. anything in my experience. A
speaker so vocally various, so facially vigorous, so versatile of eyebrow, so ec
centric of movement and gesture even rising virtually on point at times for emphas
is. This
Only a handful
was notofjust
the best
a speaker.
comic actors
This wascould
a performer.
display such an arsenal of physica
l and vocal variety. Afterwards, I walked to my room, my head ringing with un-cl
iched,
IThis would
washalf-understood
have
somehad
kindnooftrouble
strange
phrases.
believing,
genius,
Like, alien
and
as I learned
theanything
to mental
years
spastics
Idlater,
everwho
seenread
that andthe
at The
heard.
Nation.
age
of 8 (sic) when some kids still write to Santa this guy had written to the King
The of politics
England, in demanding
his speechcertain
had meant
war debtnothing
reparations.
to me. I discovered my first editor
ial page that year and had to be reminded what Right and Left meant. When I than
ked my teacher for having recommended such an entertaining evening, he said some
thing I wasnt sure I understood: Buckleys amazing, isnt he? If he had a little more
Iofcertainly
Years thepass,
commonand
never
touch,
I suddenly
expected
hed befind
toameet
truly
myself
him.
dangerous
in the daunting
man. world of hosting a talk s
how. I had seen a lot of Buckley on his own show a formidable presence on the sc
reen and
Because it was
thereBuckley,
he was Ionwasmy nervous
next weeks
in aguest
way Ilist.
dont think I ever was before or
since. If youd asked me what exactly I was nervous about, I doubt that I could ha
ve defined
Then
Conversation
I foundit.seemed
out. to be moving along nicely when, in reference to something he
had just brought up, I said, Im not really familiar with that. Back came, You dont s
Ieemthink
Wham!
If hetomeant
beI nearly
familiar
it tolost
bewith
funny,
consciousness.
anything.
it wasnt.ItThere
was awasrotten
a kind
thing
of sympathetic
to say to a ouch
beginner.
sound fr
om the audience as I heard myself utter a feeble, Oh, Imfamiliar with everything. Th
e rest is blank, except for the thought that this new job wasnt always going to b
e fun. It was a moment that at a later time both of us would have been funny abo
ut.now
We Notmake
then.a cinematic,
Somehow I got fast-forward
through thejump-cut
rest oftothetheshow
future
on automatic
that willpilot.
seem at f
Airsttranquil,
like a sparkling
non sequiturbluebitbayfrom
in the
a confusingly
Caribbean.edited
Severalfilm.
people are being pulled
horizontally in a human chain through the water. Power is supplied by one of th
ose expensive Hammacher Schlemmer toys. A sturdy little German-made putt-putt ga
s engine sold so rich folks, frolicking, can enjoy . . . um, being pulled throug
h water.
Two men in the short line of swim-suited, giggling aquatic revelers are recogniz
able. A tourist bystander asks her friend, Hey, can that be Dick Cavett? Where? There
. In the water. The guy clinging to the naked lower calves of William F. Buckley
Jr. As the latter might have answered her with that famous and much imitated res
onance,
Obviously
Over theMirabile
intervening
our relationship
dictu,
years,
madame,
had
thetaken
Cavetts
you aareturn
and
correct.
for Buckleys
the the better.had become friends. Bil
l and his tall and striking wife, Pat whose elegance, smarts and wit made her th
e perfectly suited WFB mate were there on their beautiful sailboat/yacht. (Pat w
as Patricia,
They had sailed of from
course,Newbut
York,
I never
the yacht
heardcaptained
anyone callby Bill,
her that.)
the undaunted sailor
. By this time he had been an eagerly welcomed guest on my show numerous times.
What
IButfelt
one
heIday
might
justI had
havetotermed
remembered
ask him
it.
ourabout
initial
it. Icontretemps
recreated itwasexactly.
forgotten.
He clearly didnt r
ecall it and seemed a bit embarrassed. I had gotten to know and to like him so m
uch by then that I was sorry Id brought it up. It clearly disturbed him. I quickl
y offered
Is
Precisely,
there any
himhechance
ansaid,
out.you
taking
had myme offer
confusedandwith
flashing
Davidthat
Frost?
trademark
I asked.
wink and grin. We
It is cocktail time below deck. My wife and Bill were fond of each other and enj
**********
laughed.
oyed making each other laugh. (I do enjoy Bill, she said once. I just wish it didnt
make me feel unfaithful to Gore.) In her omnivorous reading she had downed a heav
y tome on Catholicism, and asked him to clarify some abstruse point about St. Pa
ul and the theological
Well, founding of question
the churchbecomes
that seemed
he began,
to herbut
somehow
seemedself-contradictory.
to get stuck. He backed
up and started a whole new sentence and came up short again. Before he could st
art a third, his amused spouse said, Bill, you always like to try new things. Why
Later
not admit
that year,
you dont
in view
knowofthehisanswer?
strikingAfter
out on
a moment,
the religious
he joinedquestion,
in the helaughter.
gave
my wife the Harvard Concordance to Shakespeare, containing every single word in th
e plays
It weighed andaevery
ton, and
linehecontaining
cautionedthather about
word; reading
a monumentit in
of the
scholarship.
bathtub. It was i
nscribed, From one who was at a temporary loss for words, to one who now never ne
ed be.
She responded
Affectionately,
by sendingBill.
him a cherished old volume given to her by the writer J
ean Stafford. I hated to see it go, but had to admit it was the absolute ideal g
ift for William F. Buckley. Its incredible but accurate title: The Pilgrims Progre
ss put:
She
(End in Part
of Words
ForOne)
of Oneshould
Bill, Syllable.
he ever need some. Love, Carrie Nye.

(This is the second of a two-part column. Read part one.)

William F. Buckley was a man who had a great capacity for fun and for amusing hi
mself by amazing others.
Example: Dick Clurman of Time magazine, an affable gent, was a guest on the Buck
ley yacht in the Caribbean. After dinner, Bill B., leafing through a TV log, ann
ounced that The Wizard of Oz would be starting in half an hour in English, broadca
st from Puerto Rico. Clurman was delighted and confessed to never having seen it
.
At the appointed time the set was switched on, but to everyones chagrin it seemed
the movie had already been on for a good half hour. Bill had read the starting
time wrong. Clurmans disappointment was visible.
Lets see if my name cuts any ice down here, his host said. The incredulous Clurman l
ater described how his friend grabbed the phone, rang up the station in Puerto R
ico, managed to get through to the engineer, explained his guests disappointment,
and asked if it would be too much trouble to start the movie over!
In disbelief, Clurman saw the screen go blank, followed by a frantic display of
jumbling and flashing. And then the opening credits and the comforting strains o
f Over the Rainbow. The movie began anew. Clurman declared that never until then h
ad he known the full meaning of chutzpah.
I think Bill decided to let a year go by, giving Clurman time to regale all his
friends and acquaintances with the tale of the Oz miracle. It was then, still re
luctantly, that the magician revealed his secret. The movie had not been broadca
st at all that night except on Bills tape deck, which he had secretly manipulated
with his unseen left arm while talking on the phone using the other.
He was full of surprises. Once on my show we were talking about Muhammad Ali, an
d Bill revealed that he himself was taking boxing lessons.. The audience gasped.
Expecting trouble? I asked.
No, he intoned. But Im ready.
**********
Buckley enjoyed tossing literary references into the conversation; a habit not a
lways guaranteed to make friends. Once, in answer to something I said, he inject
ed, As Oscar Wilde said, Hypocrisy is the compliment that vice pays to virtue.
A fine and witty remark to be sure, but one you wouldnt be wise to depend on as y
our opening gag in your nightclub act. And one I would guess he knew it might ta
ke the rest of us a moment to fully get. If then.
But thats not what bothered me about it. A little voice in me whispered, Is that O
scar Wilde? In one of those bizarre coincidences life tickles us with, a French f
riend had given me, two days before, a volume of famous Citations (see tahss ee ow
n) by French wits. Try real hard to believe that among the half dozen she had ch
eckmarked as favorites was that one. Yes. The alleged Wilde.
What fun to catch my learned guest on this. But because he was who he was, I fig
ured he must be right and the moment passed. And because he was who he was, it w
as mildly heartbreaking.
Weeks pass. And he is back. All fear of him is gone. Try not to form your entire
opinion of me by what I did:
Bill, I said, I notice that on your show you hold yourself to a high level of ac
curacy. And that you dont shrink from holding your guests to it. I like to do the
same here. (He is too smart not to sense something. And what I did next is inex
cusable.)
Last time you were here, Bill, you said, L hypocrisie est un hommage que le vice r
end a la vertu. I forget how it goes in English. (Can you see why I was sometimes
beaten up on the playground?)
Well, you get the idea. I told him that it was in fact, not Oscar Wilde, who was
of course Irish, but Francois de la Rochefoucauld, who, as far as we know, was F
rench. And I just couldnt let you go around embarrassing yourself like that again
. As a friend. (Audience chortles, then claps.)
Bills expression was beyond description. There was fire. Ice. And a trace of amus
ement.
DC: What are you thinking, Bill?
WFB (after a well-timed pause): Of a variety of ways to express my profound grat
itude.
(Everyone has a laugh.)
**********
A writer friend reminds me that, over the years, many a journalists day was made
by receiving one of the short personal notes Buckley used to send when theyd writ
ten something he liked. These cherished tidbits were only a line or two long, bu
t imbued with the full Buckley flavor.
Language was his medium and he loved to make it roll around and do tricks. I jus
t now unearthed a copy of one of his books he had inscribed to me. He was a fan
of all wordplay and had admired an unforgivable pun I had made about French pain
ters. He wrote:
To Richard, in deepest gratitude for More in Seurat than in Ingres. May I use
it?
With affection,
Bill
The adjective fabulous, through overuse, has become cheap currency. But it applies
to him. In the sense of fabled. He was a character in the true sense of that word
. And not of our time. He was like a creation out of 19th or even 18th century l
iterature, rather than the predictable and dreary sort of folk you get these day
s. Not one of whom would have the class to reply to an irate letter-writer deman
ding that he cancel her subscription to his magazine: Cancel your own damn subscr
iption.
If I were composing a Top 10 list of things that will never be said, I submit as
number one: Hey, I just met someone exactly like William F. Buckley.
**********
Postscript: Bill would have loved this. Remember the stories the other week abou
t how badly our ignorant American high school students had done on a general kno
wledge test? Failing to identify Hitler correctly, or to know when the Civil War
was? Well, irony of ironies, the test itself contains an error.
One of its multiple-choice correct answers is wrong.
What would our friend have done with this? He would convince us that we are all
too soft from being handed things too easily, and that what would be best for al
l concerned would be to let the reader diligently discover the error himself, ra
ther than to get the answer by spoon, so to speak.
So, in memory of Bill, until next time . . . .