Notes on a Fifteenth Anniversary

WEDNESDAY AT FIVE, NR having been sent finally to bed, the editorial staff meets for a drink (50¢ per, cash). Bill Rusher bursts in. He has just got word that the Editorial Department insists on keeping the office on the Fourth Floor just now vacated by Circulation, and that the editor, from the safety of an Alpine retreat, has agreed with the editors that in order to keep pace with the modern world, we should forthwith install our very own Telex. Rusher, the last to hear of these developments, reminds us that the last shall be first—by decreeing an economy drive that sends shivers up the spines of the Tiny Tims assembled with their b.y.o.l. gin and tonic. ”1 don’t blame you,” Bill begins (Bill is very sarcastic) “for feeling that national review must develop facilities sufficient to challenge the New York Times,” he starts and builds from there to the picture of the magazine insolvent (which, alas, we always are), the staff out on the street, selling nationalized matchboxes, as the winter winds blow. “So” (bang on the desk), “I tell you” (bang) “this positively” (bang, bang) “must stop”—and a final bang on the piece of furniture on which he is perched. As in a melodrama of old—surprise— crosses his face, “and just what may I ask is this?”—in chorus, Tiny Tim and all his brothers and sisters: “Our Brand New Super-Duper Extra Special Latest Word in Xerox Machines.” “And it has just taken three thousand pictures of you,” says Jim McFadden, Assistant Publisher, one of whose tasks it is to raise $1 million a year in subscription revenues. Bill Rusher laughs. At the end Bill Rusher laughs. On aime Bill Rusher.

» Scene changes. It is late, late in the evening, at Bill Buckley’s apartment. An “Agony” is in progress (an “Agony” is vernacular for the quarterly meeting of the Publisher and the senior editors, held three times a year, on the deliberations of which the world hangs). The ideological debate has been spirited. Tempers are running high. One editor has just accused another editor of insufficiently deimmanentizing the eschaton in a recent column. The Managing Editor inserts a soothing word. A third party, the Bard of Woodstock, looks at her gratefully. “Priscilla,” he says with feeling—he gropes for just the right words . .“you are the grease in our crankcase.” . . . Epitaph-stuff.

PL

About the Author

Priscilla L. Buckley

Featured Tags

Manage following

National Review

William F. Buckley Jr.

WEDNESDAY AT FIVE, NR having been sent finally to bed, the editorial staff meets for a drink (50¢ per, cash). Bill Rusher bursts in. He has just got word that the Editorial Department insists on keeping the office on the Fourth Floor just now vacated by Circulation, and that the editor, from the safety of an Alpine retreat, has agreed with the editors that in order to keep pace with the modern world, we should forthwith install our very own Telex. Rusher, the last to hear of these developments, reminds us that the last shall be first—by decreeing an economy drive that sends shivers up the spines of the Tiny Tims assembled with their b.y.o.l. gin and tonic. ”1 don’t blame you,” Bill begins (Bill is very sarcastic) “for feeling that national review must develop facilities sufficient to challenge the New York Times,” he starts and builds from there to the picture of the magazine insolvent (which, alas, we always are), the staff out on the street, selling nationalized matchboxes, as the winter winds blow. “So” (bang on the desk), “I tell you” (bang) “this positively” (bang, bang) “must stop”—and a final bang on the piece of furniture on which he is perched. As in a melodrama of old—surprise— crosses his face, “and just what may I ask is this?”—in chorus, Tiny Tim and all his brothers and sisters: “Our Brand New Super-Duper Extra Special Latest Word in Xerox Machines.” “And it has just taken three thousand pictures of you,” says Jim McFadden, Assistant Publisher, one of whose tasks it is to raise $1 million a year in subscription revenues. Bill Rusher laughs. At the end Bill Rusher laughs. On aime Bill Rusher.

» Scene changes. It is late, late in the evening, at Bill Buckley’s apartment. An “Agony” is in progress (an “Agony” is vernacular for the quarterly meeting of the Publisher and the senior editors, held three times a year, on the deliberations of which the world hangs). The ideological debate has been spirited. Tempers are running high. One editor has just accused another editor of insufficiently deimmanentizing the eschaton in a recent column. The Managing Editor inserts a soothing word. A third party, the Bard of Woodstock, looks at her gratefully. “Priscilla,” he says with feeling—he gropes for just the right words . .“you are the grease in our crankcase.” . . . Epitaph-stuff.