Enduring affection for the former because of his imperfections is difficult to comprehend; enduring affection for the latter despite his imperfections is far more sensible.
The most FAQ here at “Words Edgewise” is this: “Can you explain the seemingly unbreakable bond between Donald Trump and his supporters?” My response is that, if you mean the tendency among his base voters to tighten their attachment to him each time he is credibly accused of larceny or sexual assault or bearing false witness – no, I can’t.
• I understand the gravity of this situation. To admit ignorance on any subject whatsoever is a clear violation of the Pundit’s Code.
• The second most FAQ is some form of this one: “Your coverage of William Buckley tends toward the hagiographical. He couldn’t have been perfect, could he?” No, no, certainly not. And I hasten to relay a story suggesting a hint of a semblance of imperfection.
• Back in the early Seventies, I began to lobby Bill to give my friend D. Keith Mano a shot at writing for National Review. Keith, as he was called with mock-seriousness, had begun to write for the glossies, had published a couple of well-received books, and was, on every outing, original and bracing. The man could write.
• After several months, I confronted Bill: What was his reservation about D. Keith? Bill was a man who loved to hire people, but even more, he hated to fire people. His reservation, Bill finally admitted, was his suspicion that D. Keith was not one of us.
• Unclench your buttocks, please. The suggestion was not that D. Keith was a member of some despised sexual or racial minority. He aroused suspicion by moving so smoothly within and around trendy-Left circles. Captain Bill, as both magazine editor and movement builder, was legendarily latitudinarian in matters of personnel, but, in preparation for rough waters ahead, he insisted that all hands be at least temperamentally aligned with NR’s mission.
• I pounced. (Of course I did. Lefties, when opining, are said to report.) I told Bill about D. Keith’s day job, which was running a family cement and construction company. Think of it. D. Keith, with his mom and dad, owned and operated a small manufacturing company in the middle of New York City. It was too small to attract the interest of the mob or the corporate types but it was just right to attract a swarm of inspectors and regulators. The company produced a little cement and a lot of noise and dust.
• I have long believed — and I forget whether I learned this from Bill or he from me — that one of the most conservatizing experiences in American life, second only to giving birth to a child, is to own and operate a small business.
• Bill Buckley was not a man who eased into the pool by way of the mini ladder at the shallow end. He plunged into the deep end, head first. D. Keith was not only hired. He was given a column and paired off against the venerable Russell Kirk, who was always right but, off at the end of his long run, not always engagingly so. “The Gimlet Eye” by D. Keith Mano enlivened every issue.
• Keith was soon established within our senior ranks and was included in the periodic “off-sites,” where vexed NR policies were (endlessly) debated and (occasionally) resolved. He and I would sit together, two high-school sophomores in the back row of an algebra class, with D. Keith providing sotto voce commentary on the otherwise tedious proceedings. On one occasion I lost it and laughed out loud. NR publisher William Rusher, who on solemn occasions made himself available for hall-monitor duty, barked at us from across the room, “Perhaps Freeman and Mano would care to share that witticism with the rest of the group.” (We did not care to share it. It was about Rusher.)
• Twice a decade, WFB would commission a reader survey, to be conducted by an independent research firm. These surveys purported to tell us what our readers thought on every conceivable subject, from page design and typography to editorial posture and the merits of individual byliners. As the presenter passed around the data sheets, D. Keith had a deliciously barbed comment for each expensive (and, for the most part, useless) data bit.
• Suddenly, he froze, a shadow of distress sliding across his face. D. Keith passed a sheet to me, saying only, “Freeman, we’re ******.” (He used there an old Anglo-Saxon word that you’re too young to know.) I read the sheet, which said in its entirety: “National Review’s Most Popular Columnists. #1 — D. Keith Mano. #2 – Neal B. Freeman. #3 – William F. Buckley Jr.”
• Over the following months and years, I can’t say that either D. Keith or I ever felt particularly ******, but I noticed that National Review never commissioned another reader survey.
• The least FAQ here at “Words Edgewise” is this: Could an opinion journalist writing 50 years ago possibly have connected comprehensively with his readers if, considered today, he would be adjudged politically correct?
• In possibly unrelated news, the biographical film from American Masters, Buckley, will debut in this country on April 3. The producer is said to have made his reputation in films on racial justice.