A longtime reader and e-correspondent, who teaches college:

When I was in my 20s and a knee-jerk liberal, I used to send snotty little crank letters to NR. Mr. Buckley answered a few and even printed one. I was astonished. At the time, I was fairly certain no one else gave a hoot what I thought, about politics or any other matter.
When Mrs. Buckley died, I puzzled over how one should frame a condolence letter to someone to whom one used to write crank letters, and whether it was in poor taste to make the attempt at all. I felt he merited envy rather than condolence, because he had met the perfect match at a young age and spent his life with her, rather than eventually settling for someone sort-of-OK or no one at all. Now of course, such questions are irrelevant — but I rather wish I had written and sent the letter.
Recently, I taught “Why Don’t We Complain?” and had great fun contrasting Buckley’s helpless, hapless, “Milquetoast” persona in the essay with his debate-style. We watched a clip of his debate with Noam Chomsky on the Vietnam War, and my students were amused to watch poor Mr. Buckley, who can’t speak up for himself, politely shredding Chomsky, no mean talker himself, into sub-atomic particles.