My old college newspaper, the Michigan Review, is to National Review what the Toledo Mud Hens are to the Detroit Tigers — i.e., a part of the minor-league system. When WFB died five years ago, it seemed like the most appropriate place to publish my remembrance:
He asked me what I was working on for the next issue. I can’t recall the topic of the article. I do remember his interest and curiosity. He listened. He asked questions. He raised his eyebrows in that distinctive way. It was strange to think that I was talking to him more than he was talking to me. Yet that’s what happened, and Bill made it seem natural. I never felt anything but comfortable around him again.
The one and only.