You all probably know this famous dictionary story from WFB:

On the witness stand I argued that the word “jig” could be used other than as animadversion. The feverish lawyer grabbed a book from his table and slammed it down on the arm of my chair.
“Have you ever heard of a dictionary?” he asked scornfully, as if he had put the smoking gun in my lap.
I examined the American Heritage College Dictionary and said yes, I was familiar with it.
“In fact,” I was able to say, opening the book, “I wrote the introduction to this edition.”
That was the high moment of my forensic life.

The first piece of writing I ever had published was in a grade-school grammar textbook. (I was in the eighth grade, and the publishers, Houghton Mifflin, used writing samples from students.) My payment was a matching dictionary and thesaurus set, handsomely bound with my name embossed on the covers. The dictionary was the American Heritage with WFB’s introduction, which sits open before me on my desk.

Part of that introduction reads:

Suzanne La Follette was always approaching Willmoore Kendall, open dictionary in hand, spectacles perched over the end of her nose, to substantiate the illegitimacy of a particular usage by Kendall. After a half dozen of these encounters Kendall, exasperated, commented: “Don’t you see, Suzanne, when people get around to writing dictionaries, they come to people like me to find out what to put in them.”

It ends:

It is not a sign of arrogance for the king to rule. That is what he is there for.

I think I would have liked Willmoore Kendall.