Friend.(Remembering WFB)(William F. Buckley, Jr.)(In memoriam)

IN an introduction to my Small Earthquake in Chile (1990), Bill wrote: "I have known the author a very long time and, since it is likelier he will write my obituary than I will write his (I smoke cigars), I see no reason to turn down this opportunity to write a few lines about him." I hoped most fervently that his prediction would never come to pass.

Bill was, quite simply, my oldest and dearest friend. Sixty-five years is a long time; in American-history terms, from Appomattox to the Great Depression. It all began, at Millbrook School, New York, in mutual political antipathy. He stood for isolationism; I, as a "bundle from Britain," for intervention against Hitler. In debate, he always won; then, with Pearl Harbor, all changed. We became roommates and best friends. He typed my essays, at prodigious speed, $1 per thousand words; I fed him jazz via an illegal homemade radio. We were united in revolt against authority. He welcomed me into the bosom of his wonderfully open-hearted family, in nearby Sharon, Conn. He became the brother I never had--and more.

Bill taught me the meaning of friendship. It never flagged; he was always there, always with his cheery "Hi, Al!" on the phone. I introduced him to skiing; he led me to Bach. I think I may have disappointed him: e.g., in not converting to Catholicism, in not following his conservatism all the way--and in not having my book on Henry Kissinger ready for him to read. But he never chided.

I sometimes pondered on ...