NRPLUS MEMBER ARTICLE T here will be no objectivity here. Boy and man, I have loved National Review. It is one of the few publications that has consistently sought the truth and celebrated the good even as it prosecutes just wars against the vile and the vicious.
Has NR’s performance been unexceptionable? I doubt that even our public-relations person would ever make such claim. (Well, almost never. During my own brief tenure in the role, I once heard myself make that very claim.) But year in, year out, has any publication done it better? Or longer? None that I know of.
On the occasion of my anniversary as a house scribbler, then, a few thoughts . . .
One of the great blessings of NR is the written record of the institution. It is nothing if not voluminous. WFB wrote dozens of books himself, and thousands of columns. The examined life, in his case, at least, was well worth living. His colleagues filled up another warehouse or two. No passing sentiment, it would seem, has been left unexpressed.
The only downside to this archival diligence is that the unwritten record of the place — the oral tradition, if you will — has been neglected. Young editors seem to know about their magazine only what those who built the institution chose to record — and no journalist’s curiosity should be satisfied comprehensively with the official version of events.
In the hopes that other eyewitnesses will come forward before memories fade — I’m looking at you, Coyne, and you, Will, and you, Brookhiser — allow me to prime the pump.
A Vine-Ripened NR Story
In the early days — into the early Sixties, that is — the outlines of the conservative movement were visible only to those equipped with military-grade binoculars. Those pioneer conservatives, 500 or so of them spread thinly across a vast country, identified themselves by writing to “Wm. F. Buckley Jr.,” as he chose to identify himself.
Bill handled the top 50 personally — the A-List. These were captains of industry (and, one hoped, advertisers in prospect), some rightish politicians, a few leading academic lights (a very few, some of them leading from far behind), and a child’s handful of celebrities (many of them with their celebrity yellowing at the edge).
The bulk of the correspondents — 350, I’m guesstimating — were handled by Bill’s tireless secretary, Gertrude Vogt. She would piece together fragments from Bill’s previous writings, stitch in a bit of connective tissue, and then mass-produce responses that appeared to her C-List recipients as bespoke replies. One fellow, who would probably prefer to remain nameless, was so damn-proud of these exchanges that he memorialized them in a book and, with some ceremony, presented a handsomely bound volume to his pen pal, WFB. Gracious as always, Bill thanked the man warmly, and then inscribed his copy over to Gertrude.
I handled the B-List. These were correspondents, a hundred or so, who were not considered to be A-List material, but who for one reason or another were deemed deserving of more-than-form-letters, however artfully contrived. One member of my scattered flock was a washed-up cowboy actor named Ronald Reagan. He was a persistent and surprisingly graceful writer, and we quickly settled into a Dear Bill–Dear Ron familiarity. My first inkling that he might have more of a political future than a Hollywood past was the day he wrote to say that he had heard good things about Eric Voegelin and wondered which of Eric’s books would be the best place to start. (“Willmoore! Do you have a minute?”)
Well, our story now hurtles forward to an evening in October of 1964. WFB and I have finished a long day on the road, and we wind up at his place in Stamford, Conn. We quick-step to the kitchen, slap together some sandwiches, pop a couple of beers, and settle down in front of the TV. I had been instructed by Henry Salvatori to make sure that Bill watched the “Special” airing that night from the Goldwater campaign. (I later learned that Henry, with typical generosity, had paid for a chunk of it himself.)
It was “Special,” all right. There was no sign of Barry Goldwater. None whatsoever. It was, instead, a speech by our autodidactic B-Lister, the washed-up cowboy actor. It was a big speech, accosting big themes, delivered by a big man. It gave me that Chris Matthews thing up the leg.
From Bill, there was not a word, which was, to say no more, unlike him. As the studio applause died and credits began to roll, he finally turned to me and said with that signature drollery, “Perhaps it’s time we elevated Mr. Reagan to the A-List.”
And so it came to pass. Bill Buckley became the mentor to a protégé 14 years older than himself.
Youth, and the Serving Thereof
Bill Buckley was widely considered to be the finest magazine editor of his generation. (He had plaques that said so.) This esteem had nothing to do with his extraordinary skills as a writer or platform performer. He earned the approbation of his peers by mastering all five phases of the editor’s gateway function: the identification, recruitment, development, protection, and showcasing of young talent.
I have been intrigued by some of the young writers within the NR orbit — Jimmy Quinn, Heather Wilhelm, Jack Butler, Sarah Schutte, and Rachel Lu, to name a few. How good can they be? We don’t know.
Here’s an idea: Why don’t we find out? NR’s senior editors have already done the hard part. All they have to do now is develop, protect, and showcase them. And as the editors do so, they might keep in mind the admonitory words of my old boss, Bill Hearst, who said to his editors: “Your job is to help the young writer develop the best possible version of himself or herself. We won’t be needing a second-rate version of yourself.”
Undervalued Asset
Even on a chilly morning, you can warm your hands by the flame of Kathryn Jean Lopez’s passion for the unborn. She has helped even hard cases like me, a weak-tea Episcopalian, to share some of that passion.
In her smart and steady advocacy, KJL has built upon a longstanding NR tradition. In the character-forming days of the magazine, Jim McFadden, our associate publisher, would push WFB to expand coverage of the abortion issue. WFB would push back, worried that NR was becoming too Catholic for the heartland audience he hoped to reach. Mac, to whom the notion “too Catholic” would have been ontologically inconceivable, then midwifed the brilliant journal, Human Life Review, which to this day extends and amplifies KJL’s work for NR. Cherish that woman. Kathryn Jean Lopez has become the best possible version of herself.
Writer Mail
I can report that I’ve had more pieces rejected by NR in the last three years than in the previous 57 years combined. Bill Buckley spiked a column of mine. He loved it, he said, but he did not have the funds to cover the legal bills it was likely to excite. John O’Sullivan rejected a piece. Sort of. John, who is a prince in all things personal and professional, does not have the administrative skills that summon memories of, say, Alfred P. Sloane. John lost my piece, and he apologized abjectly.
In the current decade, mid-masthead editors have rejected three of my submissions with e-notes saying, “This one’s not for us.” Let it be stipulated that the old boy has lost a few miles off his two-seamer, but, c’mon guys. Writing is hard. You owe the writer at least a hint of where he fell short. (Only the great Red Smith would disagree. He said that writing was easy. All you had to do was open a vein and let it all bleed out.)
Party On!
WFB was long and quite rightly known as New York’s party-giver of choice. Nobody in his right mind turned down an invitation to a dinner, a recital, a sunset cruise, a “colloquy.” At what other table could you find yourself seated next to Auberon Waugh or Clare Boothe Luce or David Packard — or, within the span of a single fortnight, all three of them? Those evenings were highly entertaining, but much business, much of it the nation’s business, got done.
I don’t mean to place unbearable weight on her slender shoulders, but I think I see some of that same socio-political genius in National Review Institute’s Lindsay Craig. My advice to you would be that, if she invites you to an event, any event, you should drop what you’re doing and go.
Mission Fuzz?
The core responsibility of a journal of opinion, we were frequently reminded, is to express an actionable opinion. In recent times, my impression is that within NR’s talismanic blue borders there has been much too much observing and much too little opining. You would think that we had taken a pledge not to interfere with the natural course of events. As a case in point, what is NR’s opinion on the election next year? Any preference as among Smith and Jones and Brown? We wouldn’t want to wait until the people have spoken, would we?