Overdrive

by William F. Buckley, Jr.

  The question of course arises whether someone who spoke in such heavy terms about me is likely to exercise disinterested judgment in evaluating my copy. You and I have been friends for a long time, and you and your colleagues (I enclose an example) have from time to time been very generous in your evaluations of my writing over many years. Harry Elmlark was, understandably, devoted to you, and if he were alive, I'd have tossed this mess at him, knowing he would deal with it.

  I guess what I need to convey is: 1) I don't want just the Boston Globe's money, I want its reach. 2)1 recognize that it is the preeminent paper in the area, but I would settle for other papers rather than merely be paid, while the column, week after week, is shelved. 3) It isn't reasonable to suppose that an editorial page editor who was willing to be quoted in 1977 to the effect that I am a cheap-jack Nixon careerist is likely to be balanced in his evaluation of what I have to offer. Under the circumstances, I would like to petition for one of the following: a) a policy decision on whether the Globe wants my column—defined as, does the Globe want, not merely to buy my column, but also to publish it, say half the time; or b) a release, which would permit Universal Press, without any prejudice to its other features, to withdraw my feature from the Globe and sell it to other papers in territory now reserved by the Globe.

  And how are you otherwise? Always with warm regards.

  To this, Tom Winship replied:

  Dear Bill: As you might suspect there is a big difference of opinion here at the Globe over columns. There are those who are rooting for you because they like your literate and perceptive analysis of current events. On the other side, are those who view your columns differently. If the situation remains unchanged and your column is seldom used in the Globe during the next few weeks, we will release it to the syndicate for possible sale elsewhere in our territory. Indeed we are required to do so under a consent agreement with the Justice Department. What say if either you or the Globe bite off the matter of Buckley in the Globe by June 15? All the best, Tom.

  In turn, I answered:

  Dear Tom: Fair enough. And if we have to unplight our troth I will give you a free subscription to the Globe's successor so that you can continue to be enlightened. Warm regards.

  Herb told me he had sent a copy of my letter to Phil Weld, in part because they are very close friends, but also because Phil likes my stuff, has for years been a director of the Globe, and is a friend of Tom's and Nolan's (it would probably be safe to say about Philip that he is a friend of everyone he has ever met). At just about that time, Herb wrote and asked if I would be willing to write an introduction to Phil's forthcoming book Moxie, an account of his extraordinary one-man race across the Atlantic, Portsmouth to Newport, in which, at age sixty-five, Philip Weld set a world record for single-handed-sail speed across the Atlantic. I said sure, and am glad I did, because the book is superb.

  In due course I received an answer from Nolan, to wit:

  Dear Mr. Buckley: The problem here is not any "considerable hostility" which I have for you, because I have none. Rather, I count myself among the admirers of your earlier work. That work was characterized by a vitality and diligence that I have not seen lately. If any three of your columns were as well researched as your letter to Tom Winship was, we'd all be better off. Many columnists, including George Will, whom we both admire, now write twice weekly. That schedule allows a more discriminating choice of subject matter and more time to write. The vague deadline offer by Tom in his letter to you of June 15 might give you time to decide whether you wish to rearrange your schedule. That would have a bearing on your column's appeal for us.

  Sincerely yours,

  Martin F. Nolan

  Editor, Editorial Page

  The character in my novels, Blackford Oakes, has in him a streak of self-indulgence of a most masochistic character. I confess I have it too. I remember as a young adult reading The Postman Always Rings Twice. There is a scene there where the man and the girl, fleeing the cops in their car, have an accident, crawl out of the wreck in the woods, the police not ten minutes away and closing in; and suddenly his lust overwhelms him and he says to himself, I must have her, 1 simply don't care what the consequences are. Blackford Oakes is a schoolboy (in novel number 1) about to be flogged by a British headmaster to whom decorum means everything and the absence of the deferential "sir" a sin of nearly mortal proportions.

  [Scene: the headmaster's library. Oakes has been prepared by the assistant, and lies over the end of the sofa, rear end unclothed, upward. The headmaster, seated, is reviewing the Delinquencies Register.]

  Dr. Chase spoke for the first time.

  "Oakes. O-a-k-e-s. I have a good many complaints here about you, Oakes, though I have not previously acted on any of them. My mistake, I can see now. Tell me, sir, have you ever been beaten?"

  Blackford was hot now not only with fear but with rage. But he knew that nothing—no threat, no punishment—would deprive him of the imperative satisfaction of answering curtly. "No," he said.

  The same demon overcame me and so I wrote out a letter that could only have the consequences of getting me fired from the Globe.

  Dear Mr. Nolan: I have not approached you with a request that you appraise my work (we both know you are free to discontinue your purchase of it at any time). If you wish to evaluate it, I suggest you put in to review the seventh volume of my collected columns which Doubleday will bring out next year.

  Yours faithfully.

  It did, of course, lead to cancellation; but having ruined poor Phil Weld's campaign of conciliation, I had to tell him the truth, which was that the writing of that letter left me with a fierce Johnsonian joy. He was very kind about it all; indeed so was Tom Winship who in due course wrote:

  Dear Bill: I feel badly. First, why haven't I written sooner? It's not my style to let unhappiness go by without direct communication with you. I lay that to my innate sloppiness in matters about my desk and upon too much travel of late. I also feel badly that we have come to a parting of the ways. I frankly didn't think that I should throw myself across the railroad tracks so early in the game of Marty's regime as editor of the editorial page. I urged him to keep Buckley in the Globe family because you write so very well. I did not go beyond that. I do value our friendship and I trust that it will survive this bump in the road. Happy sailing.

  Best regards.

  To which I replied, in part, "By no means should this interfere with our personal relations. There is always the alternative that you should become the publisher of the Boston Herald American [which had picked up my column]. Or would that be asking too much? With warm regards."

  In planning the documentary, Weld had shown wonderful enterprise by getting six hot boats, with skippers of different personality stripe, and rigging a camera before which the contestants soliloquized once or twice a day. The resulting collage of fun, rage, desperation, danger, and fear, with wind, seas, calms, made for the most exciting sea documentary I ever saw. And David, viewing it, agreed. Incredibly, the networks didn't buy it, though CBS Cable did. It is unmistakably a classic.

  The documentary finished, Pat said she was tired and would go straight to bed. I asked David if he would like to take a Jacuzzi. We went down to the cellar, and in ten minutes the Jacuzzi pool was full. From it I can look out over the white marble to the exquisite thirty-foot-long pool, with the Robert Goodnough mosaic, reds, golds, blues, yellows in infinite complexity of shading, beginning at the near end, slithering away to the far end, and rising up the whitewashed stucco wall, lit by pool lights and, at the far end, recessed lights that come on to the desired brightness: the whole a beautiful shimmer of colors bouncing off an overhead mirror that runs the length of the room. It is the most beautiful indoor pool this side of Pompeii, and from time to time I would leave the Jacuzzi and plunge into the water, wonderfully bracing at the seventy degrees I keep it, and with the flick of a switch, the far end of the pool begins to throw water out at you through an underwater jet, the effect being that you can
swim as if you had an entire ocean to traverse. Then back to the Jacuzzi; back to the pool. We dressed, turned off the music, and David said he felt a lot better, and I agreed, and we said good night.

  Seven

  SUNDAY

  I rose early because the day would be crowded, so I took my breakfast downstairs, leaving Pat asleep. The Sunday New York Times was there, and I had to be ruthless, rationing myself to a mere half hour with it—I'd catch up later. The sky was bright, light blue, the sea a leaden blue, the early sun provocatively incandescent, the wind vigorous and steady. From the veranda, I could make out the skyline of New York. That kind of clarity comes only a half-dozen times a year. I headed to the study to do more correspondence before Mass.

  An irritating letter from the "entertainment editor" of the Eagle Publishing Company of Pittsfield, Massachusetts. So much so that it almost certainly bounces off an interesting row I had with the paper's editor years ago. I decided to refresh myself on what had happened before framing my reply.

  It was way back in 1969 that I wrote to:

  Lawrence K. Miller, Editor

  THE BERKSHIRE EAGLE

  Pittsfield, Mass.

  Dear Mr. Miller:

  I should have thought that you put a high enough value on your readers to protect them against columns written by a "notorious anti-Semite." In the event that that isn't the case, you are less fastidious than I am. Because I would not want to be associated with any newspaper disposed to tolerate among its regular writers a notorious anti-Semite. Under the circumstances, (a) you should fire me because you believe the characterization of me by [the columnist | George Connelly (your issue of October 6, 1969) to be true; or (b) you will disavow the charge and apologize for having printed the libel, and perhaps take the opportunity to say what is your policy toward columnists who pass their libels through your pages; or (c) I shall—just to begin with—instruct my syndicate to withdraw my column effective immediately.

  Yours faithfully, Wm. F. Buckley, Jr.

  Dear Mr. Buckley:

  Thank you for your letter of October 13 addressed to Lawrence K. Miller. In response thereto, the marked item enclosed was appended to the October 20 column of Professor George G. Connelly.

  Yours obediently,

  Robert B. Kimball

  Assistant to the Editor

  Enclosure: "Apology. Prof. Connelly, in a column of Oct. 6 based in part on an article by Gore Vidal in the September issue of Esquire, imputed anti-Semitism to William F. Buckley, Jr. Upon examination of all available evidence ... an apology is tendered Mr. Buckley on behalf of our columnist and this newspaper—Ed."

  Dear Mr. Miller:

  I note that not only are you too busy to prevent your columnists from submitting libels, you are also too busy to take the time personally to apologize to the victim for publishing them. I note also that the normally verbose Mr. Connelly is suddenly struck dumb, leaving it to others to apologize to me on his behalf.

  I am not disposed to have dealings with such people: not even professional dealings. On the other hand I do not wish to satisfy myself at the expense of such of your readers as desire to read my column. Under the circumstances, I shall continue to send you my column on the regular basis, on the understanding that you will not henceforward pay any money for it. I shall myself absorb the cost of mailing. Perhaps you and Mr. Connelly can meet and giggle together at this demonstration that crime can, after all, pay.

  Wm. F. Buckley, Jr.

  They continued to run the column for a while, sending the regular monthly check, which I instructed the syndicate not to cash. (It was on the order of twenty dollars a month.) After two or three months they dropped the column, sending along a letter to Harry Elmlark, the syndicate's president, to the effect that they would not accept it free of charge. Dear Harry. The idea of not cashing a check was theologically alien to him. And then to lose a customer—because his syndicate wouldn't take that customer's money! It was too much; but Harry decided to show fortitude, and decided also to tell me, three or four times a week, how strong and loyal he had shown himself to be during his tribulation.

  So, years later, Mr. Wiseguy writes me. His references are to a form letter sent out over my signature by an organization known as Friends of Firing Line, whose executive secretary is Mrs. Norma Woodley. Her principal concern is to raise money for local sponsors of "Firing Line," and to send out occasional promotional bulletins. The Eagle gentleman writes:

  Dear Mr. Buckley: In reply to your letter of October 22, thank you for your good wishes and for notifying me of the beginning of the 16th season of "Firing Line," whatever that is.

  As for having Mrs. Woodley "help you in any way she can," thanks again but no thanks.

  I am also pleased that you are helping Bell and Howell sell so much of whatever it is they sell. [The reference escapes me, but it isn't worth calling Norma.] Do I detect a little touch of Reaganomics there?

  If you by chance run across Warren Steibel, please give him my regards and tell him it's been too long between drinks.

  I am glad that you and I have become friends after all these years. It will give me an opportunity to find out if your dinner parties are really as much fun as all the columnists say.

  With best wishes.

  I decided the letter was tasteless enough to warrant a riposte.

  "Dear Mr.—: Your answer to my form letter was unnecessary, though perhaps in a corner of the world so provincial as to deem it amusing to feign no knowledge of 'Firing Line,' you actually thought the letter personal, which if it had been, it would have been quite differently composed. Yours faithfully."

  My notebook tells me that we decided at the last editorial conference that we could not continue to use as our economics editorial writer someone who had gone to the Treasury Department. I write to him to explain why, and I hope he understood, though I received no acknowledgment of the letter.

  Ken Galbraith called me last night on a delicate matter. While he was serving as ambassador to India, his children became very close friends of the children of Ali Bhutto, at the time a high government official in Pakistan, whose fortunes subsequently declined, indeed so sharply that early in 1979 he swung on a noose, executed by General Zia. The objective is to effect a little relief for one of Bhutto's daughters, an activist whose detention has been in rather harsh circumstances. Ken is scrupulous in advising me that there is no imputation, explicit or implicit, of injustice in the detention, merely a request that it be done more clemently—perhaps house arrest? All this I convey to Under Secretary Jim. Jim is the State Department's overseer in Pakistan matters, and recently concluded some sort of an arms deal involving many millions of dollars, in return for which, echoing the left-wing press, his children began referring to their father as "The Merchant of Death," as in: "Ma, is the Merchant of Death home for dinner?" Perhaps it would have happened anyway, who knows, but five weeks later Bhutto's daughter was taken from prison into house arrest.

  I write a memo to Rick Brookhiser. A dozen years ago we received a manuscript composed, or so the covering letter informed us, by a fourteen-year-old schoolboy in Rochester who protested to the authorities in his school that the other side of the story was not being presented on the scheduled Vietnam Day.

  The piece was astonishingly literate—wry, even—and jaunty rather than merely cheeky. We published it. And kept an eye on the author, who went on to Yale where he experienced the single disappointment of getting one B plus (all his other grades were A's). He came to us for summer work, and then we offered him a job after he graduated. He took it, on the understanding that in one year he would leave to go to law school. Soon Priscilla and I conspired together; I lunched with Rick and told him that if he would give up law school, we would in one year promote him to senior editor, the youngest in NR's history, and labor to pay him a living wage. His productivity, efficiency, and versatility have become legendary. He has been temporarily assigned the job of executing long-range editorial projects, and I write him a memo: "Apr
opos the feature project business, I should think a massive piece on the Catholic Church and pacifism should be considered, in the light of the predicted result of the bishops' conference this coming week. See the Op-Ed page 'Jubilant Declaration' in the New York Times by the Catholic pacifist."