High life
My Mr Right
Taki
illiam F.Buckley Jr is the father of modern American conservatism, a patri- cian who 35 years ago resigned from the CIA and started a magazine — National Review — whose influence got Ronald Reagan elected President. As they say, the rest is history.
This is the good news. The bad is that he gave me my start in what some people call fiction-writing; even worse, as of last week he announced his resignation as editor. But his was no Achilles-like sulk. His successor is John O'Sullivan, well known among readers in England who can tell the differ-
`It's a black day for mankind. He's dis- covered street theatre.' ence between mutatis mutandis and mutant ninja turtles. O'Sullivan was hand-picked by William F., and the word on the street is that yet again Buckley has hit on a winner.
When National Review was born, con- servatism as it is now known in America did not exist. Liberalism was not only the rage, it was the sole intellectual tradition. Mind you, there were lots of rednecks around, anti-Semites, John Birchists, Ku- Klux-Klaners, all passing for conserva- tives, until, that is, Bill Buckley decided to fight. He did it by out-debating and out- thinking the opposition, and better yet, by showing Americans that a political debate can be fun. The man has a great sense of humour, something not even the Webbs could ever accuse the Left of possessing.
Until he came along, conservatives in the good old USA were known to be . . . well, strange types — morose, intemper- ate, in fact downright stupid. In 25 short years Buckley and his merry band changed all that. He moved the mainstream of America towards the Right by rebutting liberal orthodoxies in favour of free- market economics and a staunch anti- communism. It would be safe to say, in fact, that if our beloved Prime Minister did not have a mind of her own, she could be a Buckley clone.
Buckley is an elegant, charming, tough- minded gentleman, a lover of sailing, of Bach and of tasteful writing. His is the best cuisine in the Big Bagel, as well as in Gstaad. His wife and son are as good as one can expect to find if one believes in the heart and in God. If I sound like a courtier, I may well be, but I have never been made to feel like one. However corny it may sound, I would have loved to have Bill be my father's brother.
This, then, was the scene last week when I went to the Waldorf Astoria to celebrate NR's 35 years, and to lament Bill's resigna- tion. As expected, the food was not of the type served by Harold Pinter and his missus. Nor were the speeches the kind Kinnock would revert to if and when our beloved one sends him to the House of Lords. People like Tom Wolfe and George Will do not use phony devices. And then there was Bill, saying goodbye to us as elegantly as he has waged the battle throughout, until the very last . . . when his voice broke and he quickly left the podium. It was the stuff that makes you- know-who cry. And many did. Needless to say, I was not one of them. I was too drunk, but for once I had an excuse. During a short film of National Review's 35-year history, pictures of its alumni flashed up on a giant screen in the ballroom. Among the great, up came a
picture of someone Bill once thought might turn out to be a serious writer, alas better known today as an acid-tongued gossip. It was typical of Bill to include those who have failed him. I can't think of a better reason to seek oblivion, and I sure found it that night.
Previous page
