Cruising Speed Read online

  Copyright© 1971 by William F. Buckley, Jr.

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof,

  may not be reproduced in any form without permission,

  Published simultaneously in Canada by Longmans Canada Limited, Toronto.

  A portion of this book appeared originally in The New Yorker.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 71-170066

  "Eventually, far into the book, you will see how it came to be written. For now, it is enough to know that Buckley turns everything he encounters over and over in words, verbally loving it, in love with life. "In love with his own life, some might say–they would be wrong. His gift for appreciation is the greatest of his many talents; and what some take for hyperbole is, rather, adequacy before life's ambushes. Chesterton claimed we do not have the energy to give things their proper response of stunned gratitude or generous combat. Buckley does—has so much energy, both for savoring and for battling, that a week of his life would kill most of the people I know (beginning with me) . The week 'documented' in this racy diary is not typical; but neither is it more risky, honored, cluttered, dazzling—nor closer to the rocks, the shipwreck that he flirts with—than others I could single out. The point is that he has no typical weeks."

  —GARRY WILLS

  Monday, November 30. The car pulls in at ten, and my wife, Pat, undertakes to supervise the loading of it. This is an operation, because it has been a long weekend, during which a lot of clutter accumulates that we’ll need in New York, and there is the fruit and the cheese and the flowers that would spoil if we left them in Stamford until the weekend. Angela, the maid, will go with us; and our house guest Peter Glenville; and three dogs, my Rowley, and her Pepper and Foo, the last an ill-tempered, eccentric Pekingese, a gift from Marvin Liebman, one of the two or three people I would forgive the giving of a dog as a Christmas present; perhaps the only friend I would forgive the giving of Foo. I named horrible Foo, Foo, making the point firmly that to call him Fu would be in inexcusably bad taste. Pepper is a beautiful cavalier King Charles spaniel who loves Pat and naught else in this world, which I take unkindly. Rowley is also a cavalier, a Blenheim, quite simply the most beautiful, most engaging dog I ever saw, his only fault being that of Browning’s Last Duchess, who smiled as sweetly for the gardener as for the Duke; in Rowley’s case, he smiles even more sweetly for the gardener if there is any possibility at all that he is likelier than the duke to give him a) something to eat or b) a ride in the car, the two things Rowley cares most about, respectively, in all the world. Fortunately, he is quite stupid, so that it never fails that to keep him from jumping into the limousine and adding to the general chaos prematurely one has only to open the door to the Renault, as though that were the car we would be driving off in. Then you shut that door, while you calmly pack the Cadillac, and open it up only after you are ready for Rowley to join you.

  I am waiting thirty yards down the driveway, opposite my garage-study, with my briefcases, and I squeeze in, and resume reading the research material for the two television shows that will be taped beginning at two-thirty: one of them with Jerris Leonard, who is the young Assistant Attorney General in charge of integrating the schools; the other with two Catholic college presidents, Father Kenneth Baker (S.J.) of Seattle University, and Sister Elizabeth McCormack (R.S.C.J.) of Manhattanville. There had already been a problem, transacted earlier this morning over the telephone. Sister Elizabeth did not want Manhattanville to be referred to as a “Catholic college.” But, I said to the producer, Warren Steibel, that will hardly do, since the purpose of the television program is to bring together two college heads who are disagreed about the role that religion should play in the curriculum; Father Baker being outspokenly in favor of palpably-Catholic Catholic higher education, Sister Elizabeth believing something else—a decision that, the research suggests, she was perhaps necessarily driven to by the Blaine Amendment, which is a part of the Constitution of the State of New York and says that no state aid can go to a religious college. How does one cope with that, and qualify for the subventions available from the state to any nonreligious college—x number of dollars per degree granted? Why, unstress religion to the point of satisfying the educational authorities that yours is not a religious college in any meaningful sense. It comes to several hundred thousand dollars per year where Manhattanville is concerned, and for that much money, nowadays, you can just co-exist with a little cock-crowing. There is the second complication—that Father Baker, having been in office for only a semester, has been eased out. Does that mean that his position on Catholic education has been officially repudiated? The point is, some things are personal, and we have to decide what to bring up during the program, and what we shouldn’t bring up because it is of strictly personal, not public, concern. Call Sister Elizabeth, I had asked Aggie Schmidt—my colleague and researcher, and an ultramontanist graduate of Manhattanville—and tell her we are going to have to discuss the question of Manhattanville’s Catholicism on the program, because after all that’s the kind of thing the program is about; and if she wants to drop out, we’ll go with Father Baker alone, if need be. The word comes back. Sister Elizabeth will take her chances.

  We head out for New York. Pat and Peter chatter on, giggle, exclaim, while the dogs bound about, and I read the recent court decisions that have left so many people so confused about what the law demands, let alone the Constitution. I had written, earlier in the morning, the column I must write every Monday (and Wednesday, and Friday), and in it I thought to rebuke the House Committee on Un-American Activities, now called the Committee on Internal Security, for publishing the names of sixty-odd “radical” speakers who repeatedly appear on campus, and at the same time to rebuke the court that sought to restrain the committee from publishing its report. What the committee did, I thought and wrote (mostly, I write what I think, though not always, and sometimes I suppose I do not think enough before I write. Professor Paul Weiss at Yale used to say “I’m not as bright as my students; I have to think before I write”), was less mischievous than lazy. Better to find out what the radicals are saying on the campuses than merely to brand them as such, and report that they are speaking on campus.

  And there had been correspondence. Always there is correspondence. My former headmaster (Edward Pulling, of Millbrook School) demands to know what does “agenbite of inwit” mean—a phrase used by a professor at the University of Georgia who reviewed (favorably, which is why E. P. was sent the review) one of my books. I hadn’t any idea, but didn’t feel guilty about it, since Mr. Pulling didn’t know and he is an English scholar; but obviously I had to find out, so Aggie called the professor. The phrase is Middle English, a translation of Friar Loren’s Somme, more accurately rendered Ayenbite of Inwit, and meaning “remorse of conscience,” and never mind the relevance of that to my book The Governor Listeth . . . An associate editor of The Village Voice had asked me a few weeks earlier to review a book, and I hovered over a decision, and then spotted the review in VV of Edward Banfield’s The Unheavenly City, the operative sentence of which was “[Professor Banfield’s book] is a piece of shit,” and the rest of which was worse, so I wrote No, and said why. I find his answer very engaging—understanding, and yet resigned. “On a Vermont hillside, overlooking the Moose River, I read the review you refer to. While it didn’t make me cut short my vacation, it angered and embarrassed me enough to write a curt letter to my summer replacement—I suppose I sounded stuffy myself. But I assure you this note isn’t so much conciliatory as wistful. For if you were a regular reader of The Voice, I’m afraid you’d find many articles, alas, alas, to which you could make similar objections.” ...

  Tony Bengert, who is a Maryknoll priest in Zambia, writes re
acting, unhappily, to a column I had written on the meeting between Kenneth Kaunda and Edward Heath, at which Mr. Heath had informed Kaunda that yes, he, Heath, did intend to sell arms to South Africa, arms of the kind that can be used against white Soviet gunboats, not black freedom marchers. I had mentioned in the column that I had learned quite accidentally a year earlier, shortly before going to Zambia—primarily to oblige a friend who had a television special in mind— that I was persona non grata in Zambia, for the sin of having publicized the views of Dean Acheson on the silliness of the boycott of Rhodesia, and I expressed myself as reconciled, inasmuch as, on the whole, I would prefer to be forbidden to go to Zambia than to have to go there. Father Bengert, a terribly bright young man—I met him at Maryknoll. He was a seminarian when I spoke there a few years ago—offers an explanation of how come I was blackballed: “I’ll bet some nasty USIA holdover from the last Administration, unhappy over your position in that Agency [I am a member of the United States Advisory Commission on Information]—and working in Zambia—had you declared unwanted there.” ... A gentleman from West Roxbury, Massachusetts, generally concurs with my defense of the early Beethoven, and of Bach, and wonders “whether you had explained to your youthful audience that the keyboard instrument of Bach’s time made necessary so much of the decorative writing that for some ears has a fabricated sound.” ... I have a telegram from a young playwright: “Dear Mr. Buckley. The soul of a secular nation is its theater. Our theater is all but dead. I send you a modern classic tragedy and you are too busy and important to read it. How disgusting.” Frances Bronson, my secretary, was very much annoyed by the telegram, because only five days earlier she had sent a letter to Peter Glenville that I had dictated. “I would not normally send along a manuscript, but I am so fetched by the vigor and grace of the letter that accompanied it (I attach it) that I wonder if you could possibly tell me whether you think it has a chance?” Frances heatedly wrote out a telegram which she proposed to send, rebuking the playwright for his impatience. I told her not to send it, because I react against declamatory rudeness that is coercive in intent— obviously the playwright thought that his telegram would get him some action. (The following week Peter told me that the author was talented but the play, in his opinion, was not ready for commercial production. I assume he is a very young man, I said, the telegram in mind. “If he isn’t,” Peter replied, “then you will have to counsel him to stop writing plays.”)

  Anyway, artists are as they are, and a lot of them simply don’t follow the normal rules of conduct. When as a very young man I found myself the editor-in-chief of National Review, I realized two things. One, that if I had been ten years older my colleagues might well have declined to rally around a magazine of which I was to be editor and sole owner—traditional professional resentments are not felt toward people who are much younger and are fit objects for patronizing—and, two, artists are worse, but intellectuals are often bad enough, and what it comes down to is this—that concerning certain things, everyone is inaccessible to reason, and the trick is to find out what those things are, and simply accept the given in the situation.

  Russell Kirk, for instance, must not under any circumstance be asked to review a movie or a television show, and to suggest to James Burnham that he read a particular book is almost to guarantee that he will not read it; that kind of thing. Sometimes—we are back on artists now— you face a concrete social problem, and yesterday, facing such a one, I wrote to a friend in Switzerland. “It occurs to me that you have sought by your silence to communicate your displeasure with me. I find that too bad, particularly since I am by all odds the nicest man I know. However, I do think that in order to save us embarrassment, we ought to know ahead of time whether, on my return to Switzerland [where I spend February and March], we are supposed, on happening upon each other, to exchange only Averted Gazes, because my Averted Gaze is a little rusty, and needs some practicing up. Or, we can resume our amiable relationship, wherein you admire my prose, I admire your art, and we agree to leave moot the question of your business acumen. Why don’t we leave it this way, that if I do not hear from you in response to this letter, I shall regretfully assume that the former is your election? My love to the girls [his wife, daughter, and dog, who is Rowley’s second cousin].” There are the routine requests, all of which I regularly resolve to handle with form letters, but how to compose a form letter adequate to the resources of some writers, particularly the very young ones? “Well, here I am again. Yes sir, it takes more than a broken typewriter to keep this kid down. This is my third letter to you . . . But gee-wiz golly-darn Mr. Buckley, when are you going to answer my letters? To totally ignore a 17 year old high school conservative, I must warn you, could prove to be dangerous. We are not only relatively rare but also very sensitive. After all if you keep ignoring my letters I might get the idea you don’t want young people in the conservative movement. Wouldn’t that be terrible? (The answer is ‘yes’). But if you ignore me you are ignoring more than a young conservative. Your [sic] ignoring a young conservative from Indiana. A Cardinal Sin! . . . But Hark! All is not lost. And to prove to you I am not really sore I am going to give you this chance to make-up with me and the state of Indiana (both of whom have been ignored too long). You, Mr. Buckley, are cordially invited to be the guest speaker at our high school’s Good Government Day program . . . Please understand that Key Club is a service organization for high school boys and as such we wouldn’t be able to pay the high price that I know you normally get...”

  He gets a non-form letter, the key sentence of which is, “Whenever you are disposed to be sore at me, try to remember that National Review is available to you for five or six dollars a year in part because of activities I undertake which result in my having to answer rather briefly notes from such pleasant people as yourself, and say no to nonpaying invitations to speak.” ... A form letter suffices for “I am writing a term paper in high school about Communism in America. I would appreciate it if you would send me some information about this subject. My teacher told me that you are a conservative who is probably a strong anti-Communist.” The teacher would not have got a form letter. . . . The Notre Dame lawyer wants a review of Ramsey Clark’s book, Crime in America: “Upon publication of a review, we would be glad to send you fifty complimentary copies of the review, and a one-year subscription to the lawyer." I have always thought that the most genial of all form letters is the one that suggests that the correspondent did not get through, so that he won’t therefore feel that his persuasiveness was met, and resisted. Whence, “Mr. Buckley has asked me to interdict all requests for interviews, articles, reviews, etc., for the next period—probably about six months, as he is drastically in arrears on commitments he has already made. I hope you will understand that to take on any further commitments at this point simply means failing to keep those he has already made. Thank you for writing. Very truly yours, Frances Bronson.’'... Then, what is about as hard-a-sell as I ever get, from the student government head of DePauw. An elaborate windup. “Surely this letter will rank among the very oddest of the wide and weird assortment which no doubt floats your way each week. I am writing to attempt to persuade you to accept a speaking engagement here. Please hear me out— if it’s of any consequence, I’ve shown you the same courtesy countless times in your columns and books—in spite of profound philosophical disagreements.” Then about DePauw, and how important it is. But, however good the education at DePauw, there is “one glaring defect: the absence of an even reasonable articulate conservative spokesman.” The letter goes on. “It is entirely possible— nay, probable—that the overwhelming majority of De Pauw students graduating in the last decade have never heard so much as a syllable from an intelligent conservative.” And a little guarded flattery. “Do not think me a flatterer [the word “flatterer” comes out charmingly home-typed, which I always like: something like “flatteret”]; you know you are intelligent—why should I peetend [sic] I don’t? To these people the terra conservatism (please forgive this una
voidable use of labels) conjures up images of Hoosier anti-communist hysteria or (worse) the editorial pages of the Chicago Tribune and Indianapolis Star, intimately connected with this institution—on both of .which many students here have been spoon-fed from infancy.

  “The deleterious effects of this homogenized diet are several: slow-witted conservative students here are imbued with the fuszifest sorts of ideas about American society and are rendered utterly incapable of defending themselves intellectually against even a mediocre liberal spokesman. (Let us face facts: it does not require overwhelming philosophical utensils to make intellectual puree out of the grade triple-Z grist cranked out by the Tribune and Star.) Perceptive conservative students become either bored with or nauseated by such drivel and abandon the conservative cause for the better articulated, more sophisticated, and more popular liberal theses available in abundance through the media and other sources (e.g. university faculty). Liberal students all along the intelligence gradient acquire a sense of smugness and self-righteousness, and grow intellectually paunchy due to a dearth of skillful conservative sparring partners.

  “We are not a wealthy organization. We can afford very little beyond your travel and associated expenses, plus perhaps a small honorarium (no doubt a pittance compared to what you could usually command). However we can promise a capacity turnout, excellent coverage by the mass media, and unlimited flexibility—you can pick any date you wish. Please, give this a moment’s consideration.” ... I did, of course, and decided not to take on the student body president of DePauw University on the question of the triple-Z incapacity of the chief editorial writers of the Chicago Tribune and the Indianapolis Star, both of them Phi Beta Kappas from rather exacting universities; that kind of argument one simply hasn’t time for. “Your letter touched me,” I wrote. “I say that quite sincerely. But you must consider my situation. I work overtime so as to be able to send National Review to anybody who wants it for approximately $12.00 per year. [The disparity in the cited cost is because, for students, we have a crazy-rate system, which reduces the subscription price by a couple of dollars.] It costs us approximately $20 a year to produce it. The difference is made up by fund appeals and my own activities as a lecturer. The obvious answer to your generic question is: If your fellow students have any intellectual curiosity at all, they will pick up National Review at a very small cost to them. If they want me personally, what they want is theater. [A deucedly good point, what?] For theater, I charge—and remit my earnings to National Review. I don’t like to say it because it sounds self-serving, but there are over five hundred applications from colleges willing to pay the full fee [I exaggerate. More like 200], and it would not be fair to penalize National Review by patronizing DePauw, however much I am inclined to do so as a result of your own eloquence. It is not the same thing, but I would be very happy if you would lunch with me next time you come to New York.”