Dear Mr. Buckley: November 16, my first visit to New York City. I landed at JFK around 1 P.M. and drove straight into Manhattan. First stop: NATIONAL REVIEW offices. Do you give tours? I sheepishly corrected the assumption that I am a subscriber: not currently, but was for many years starting around ’73. A slow reader, with a wife and four young children, I was spending more time reading NR than I could afford and so had to quit. But I still love NR. I was welcomed warmly and given a tour by Messrs. Anthony Dick and Kevin Longstreet. They kindly ushered me into the Holy Place. It was reassuring to find everything consistent with all I had read about it: unpretentious and hospitable.
November 17, 7 P.M. My business meeting in New Jersey was over. So was my fantasy of getting a glimpse of your 80th birthday party, which started at 6. But later, as I was making good time on the drive to JFK, and reflecting on the kind Providence that had brought me to New York on this very day, I turned north to Manhattan again, parked, and put my jacket and tie back on. I entered the Pierre ballroom in time to hear your son, the very funny comic novelist, comment on the video in progress. I stood in the back and witnessed the rest of the program. When it was over, I was startled to hear “Steve, you made it!” from Mr. Dick, who, to my amazement, recognized me. Overwhelmed with the success of my endeavor and wishing to express my gratitude, I looked for you in the crowd and, mirabile dictu, spotted you in the lobby. But as you were about to cross my path it seemed to me you looked somehow desperate and I could not bear to take so much further advantage of your eleemosynary nature to stop you thus. So, I substituted “Happy Birthday, sir!” to which you turned in passing and thanked me. I then proceeded to the top of the Empire State Building, where I could recapture my soaring spirit.
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