Resize Text: My office in New York is right around the corner from Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, so on the day of William F. Buckley’s memorial I was able to run over just in time for the service. The enormous church was filled to capacity; every seat was taken. I was lucky to find space on one of the benches to the right of the vast central nave. Christopher Hitchens, arriving directly from the airport, came huffing and sweating down the aisle, stopped to greet me distractedly, and hurried on. The great atheist, come to bow his head in reverence like the rest of Bill’s admirers.
Although I couldn’t see them from where I sat, I knew that scattered through the audience were many old friends from the conservative movement. Being an editor, however, I thought of them not as people but as books. Some were books that I had published, others books I hoped to publish in the future. The concentration of authors was so dense, I felt like an Alaskan grizzly at the foot of a waterfall, poised to pull out salmon by the paw-full.
I didn’t know Bill Buckley well, but I had worked for him some years ago when I was literary editor of National Review. Although actually to say that I worked for him is something of an exaggeration. Buckley was officially retired by this time and no longer came in to the office. But his spirit hovered over and imbued the place, and it was still very much “his” magazine. I learned this right away, when he invited me to dinner at the luxurious duplex on East 73rd Street known as the “maisonette,” where the Buckleys entertained their friends and colleagues.
As I entered the foyer, Bill greeted me with jovial warmth, like the captain of a cruise ship welcoming passengers on board. I shook hands with his other guests and moved into the salon crowded with gilded chairs and sofas. Shortly afterward Mrs. Buckley came down, descending stiffly in a sheath of Chinese silk, heavily made up, with her hair in an elaborate coif. Bill introduced me as NR’s new book review editor. “Ah yes,” she said languidly, extending her gloved hand with an oft-used phrase of greeting. “Welcome to the National Review.”
Adam Bellow is vice president/executive editor at Collins Books. He is the publisher of The New Pamphleteer and the author of In Praise of Nepotism.
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