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  One is invited, once or twice a week, to join committees. It is sometimes very hard to say no—as the shrewd letter writer clearly knows, and, accordingly, his invitation is quite other than merely perfunctory. “…we [have] decided to organize a new university in a manner that excludes, from the beginning, elements that have contributed to the decline of higher education.” How can you resist associating yourself with anything that noble? As follows: “I do not believe I am sufficiently qualified to serve as a consultant, and I know that I do not have the time to try, which I greatly regret.” And to another invitation, a formulaic reply: “I resolved several years ago not to join any non-social organizations, resigning even from several I had belonged to for years. I find it inhibits my freedom as a journalist. I know you will understand that I wish you well with your important enterprise.” It is quite true that you wish him well, less than true that you know he will understand your declination to join him.

  The big enemies are: 1) youth (some of whom you cannot bring yourself to say no to) and, 2) other editors. In the latter category, along comes Mr. Slick himself. He gets away with it by being possibly the nicest man in the whole world. He sends you the current issue of his magazine in which it just happens that there is a rave review of your most recent book written by Mr. Slick himself!, collapsing your first line of defense, since most writers will commit matricide for a good, understanding review, an understanding review being one in which you are mentioned in the same breath with, say, Melville. Mr. Slick maneuvers by invoking Duty. “Enjoying the sea, you should give something back to the sea, something to honor the shades of earlier voyages. We are the way to do that—the best way, I am bold to say. And the way to help the cause [Sea History is devoted to] would be for you to dash off a piece for our next issue.”

  “Dash off” is a form of professional flattery; it goes a long way.

  “I will be glad to repay your kindness …”

  Reggie comes in, sorry to interrupt me…. No sweat, what’s up? …Do I know where Captain Jouning keeps the batteries? Allen is taking a snooze. Reggie is trying to fix the radio, and wants to try out a fresh set of batteries…. No, I don’t know where the ship’s supply is, but I know where my supply is, and Reggie knows that I arrive on board pursuing the autarkic imperative of self-sufficiency. Thoreau defined freedom as the increased knowledge of what he could do without. I tend to define it as the increased knowledge of what I shan’t need to do without. I opened the bottom left drawer on the dresser and gave Reggie his six Cs….

  My guess is that everybody who has dominion over any kind of press space spends considerable time answering letters from convicted felons. This one tells me that Tony Scaduto, the same author who in a widely noticed book a few years ago “proved” that Bruno Hauptmann was in fact innocent of killing the Lindbergh baby, for which crime he was electrocuted in 1936, believes in the innocence of the writer, whose address is “The United States Penitentiary, Lewisburg, Pa.” The writer quotes back at me a line from a recent column by me, to wit: “As for those who believe that the Edgar Smith case [he was finally adjudged guilty—by his own confession; I had spent a quarter of a lifetime arguing his probable innocence] warrants a vow to accept the ruling of any court as factually definitive, it is necessary to remind them that this year and every year an innocent man will be convicted. Edgar Smith has done quite enough damage in his lifetime without underwriting the doctrine that the verdict of a court is infallible.” I once asked Truman Capote to read Edgar Smith’s book, Brief Against Death. He did so, and then I asked him:

  “Do you believe Smith was guilty?”

  Capote answered, “Yes.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I never met one yet who wasn’t.”

  That cynicism has its charm, but one must resist it. On the other hand, one is so easily conned. So I wrote, copy to the prisoner: “Dear Mr. Scaduto: I have a letter from Mr., a copy of

  which I enclose. If you have written anything on [his] case, I’d be glad to read it. Yours faithfully.” Speaking of conmanship, there is a letter from Rubin (Hurricane) Carter. He is the gentleman-pugilist who is always being convicted of killing someone. A few years ago he persuaded half of Broadway to sponsor an appeal for a new trial. He won it and, stepping out of jail, angrily denounced his persecutors. He got his new trial, on his own terms: and, verily, a brand-new jury sent him right back to jail, convicted of first-degree murder.

  Hurricane wrote to remind me that before his legal victory, I had agreed to meet with him to hear his story—a commitment that became moot when he won his (temporary) freedom. He wished to revive that commitment, and wrote euphuistically, “…being fully cognizant of that old idiom which speaks to the fact that neither a wise man nor a fool can clearly see where they are going if they’re always looking backwards at where they’ve been—I must ask you what are the chances of rescheduling our meeting of yesterday for today? … I just had to ask you that because of yet another age-old idiom—that being, ‘He who bemoans the lack of opportunity forgets that small doors often open up into large rooms.’” I reflect, on reading his typewritten letter, that the availability of typewriters in the death house at Trenton resulted from the only objectively successful political campaign I can ever remember having mounted. But—sigh—I am disinclined to believe that Hurricane Carter was twice cheated, though temperamentally disinclined to shut the door absolutely tight. “Please forgive the lateness in answering your letter. It would be easier for me to answer it if you would be specific in advising me what it is that you wish to talk to me about.” I swear, if he answers simply, “What do you think, shithead—a prison break”— I know myself, and I’ll be on the next train to Trenton; maybe a one-way trip.

  In which event I would lean all the harder on my professional associates. What a pleasure when they need you!

  My accountant had read that Milton Friedman might give professional economic advice to the government of Israel. Since my accountant, in addition to being the Pithecanthropus erectus Anti-Socialist man, is also the Original Zionist, the prospect of working for Friedman in behalf of Israel is quite simply overwhelming. Like the professor in Randall Jarrell’s novel who loved Greek and loved the thirteenth century: “If the thirteenth century had spoken Greek, it would have killed him not to have lived in it.” Of course, I comply with a recommendation to Milton Friedman, and take the occasion to congratulate Milton on his book’s longevity on the best-seller list. Just two weeks earlier, I had spoken at an affair in Washington at which Milton was the other speaker. I remarked that I had greeted my old friend at the reception by embracing him, which embrace he did not fully requite, permitting me to ask huffily, “What does the King of Sweden have that I don’t have?” Milton blushed, just as, I am certain, he did when he was handed the Nobel Prize.

  There are the correspondents who Never Forget. Where is the book I was writing on Ortega y Gasset? I had practically forgotten about the book. The correspondent encloses an eleven-year-old New York Times clipping from which she had gleaned the information…. A mad artist, wonderfully talented, sends me an engraved invitation to attend an opening at which he will exhibit a piece of sculpture commissioned by me. “I would truly love to be there, but alas the mountain will have to be shipped to Mohammed.” (The exhibition is in Honolulu. The invitation to attend it is an invitation to take an eleven-thousand-mile trip.) … A student wishes to know with whom he might commune, on transferring to Georgetown, of harmonious sympathies. The writer employs a device at once banal and effective. “If this letter does not reach you personally, I won’t be dismayed, for I imagine that your letter-readers, or a secretary, might be able to find such information. Sincere thanks for any help you—or someone else there—may be able to offer.” It is not any longer safe to suggest that, at Georgetown, merely because it is nominally a Jesuit-run institution, he might look up the Holy Ghost and expect to find that He has tenure there, so I give him the name of an old conservative crony who has survived the academi
c purges…. A pretender to a formidable European crown laments the ignorance of so many Rhodesians of the strategic realities, and wonders if some money might not be raised to pay the passage of a few scholars who might go to Salisbury to tutor the leadership: but already it is too late. Mugabe is by now established.

  Could I have your comment on … ? Probably the single most frequent gambit. This one does it in spades: “… I would be happy to hear your views and criticism on [the] subject. Do you believe that the time is right for ESOTs? How do you feel about ERISA, and the TRASOP, where capital-intensive companies are allowed an additional tax credit of 1% with an ESOT? How about AT&T’s recent adoption of an ESOT? Do you see the proposal making dividend payments to ESOTs tax-free as the beginning of the end to double taxation of dividends? Can you help Mr. Kelso, Senator Long, and small business (the primary beneficiary of ESOTs) in the promotion of the ESOT concept?” What can you reply? (“I’m glad you prodded me on the general subject …”) You stand up, and go out on deck where everything is bright. Reggie (having given up on the radio) and Tony are playing Ghost. I consider asking them, in grave accents, their opinion of ESOTs and TRASOPs, but good nature arrests me.

  Ah, but then you too are always asking favors. Dinah Shore must place on her program my wonderful harpsichord teacher. I sent Dinah the videocassette of my teacher, ages ago—“Miss Shore will look forward to viewing it.” Six months go by. Silence. I call her from Switzerland; she promises she will dig into it immediately. Six months go by. Silence. I send her a telegram. She replies! “I received your wire last night. Please forgive me. Everybody fell in love with Ms. Norell on the cassette and they are busy making plans for all kinds of introductions and productions on the show. I guess they communicated their enthusiasm to everyone except Ms. Norell and you. That is my fault. I apologize. I’m still in a state of lovely shock at a long-distance person-to-person call from Switzerland! I’ll bet even Cyrus Vance calls station-to-station these days. You know how President Carter is. I hope your book is finished and satisfying. I also hope to see you soon. Love from your closet groupie—Dinah.” Dinah! aaaahhhh! But a complementary gallantry? “FORGIVE MY IMPORTUNITIES, BUT IT DID TAKE EIGHTEEN MONTHS, BUT ALL THAT IS FORGOTTEN IF JUDITH NORELL

  GAVE YOU PLEASURE, WHICH IS THE HIGHEST AMBITION OF MY PUBLIC LIFE. WITH LOVE.”

  In the category of letter writers who desire to do you a favor there are also categories. There is the letter that suggests a formulation that would be useful to you. The letter of simple amiability (“I wanted to encourage you” and its converse). There is the hot tip, or even hot scoop, letter….

  Did I know that a new edition of Whittaker Chambers’ famous book Witness was coming out soon, a professor at the University of Wisconsin writes? “I call the circumstances to your attention since it might be an occasion for coverage in one of your columns.” A simple reply will do nicely: “Thanks so much for the tip. We will act on it.”

  A student at Stanford University sends me his term paper, which is about me and my writings. He says I have been very useful to him, and I thank him for saying so. His essay is, as I put it in my reply, “interesting, and well put together, but strikes me as somewhat fragmentary. Perhaps that is inevitable.” You can hardly be blamed if it was inevitable, right?

  A scholar at the University of South Carolina lassoing a Ph.D. has taken to sending me illuminating letters on the general subject of economic theory. These are elaborate enterprises in wrought-iron thought. “First,” he begins this letter, “a Diversion on Economics and Ideology: Without standards of self-enforced intellectual honesty, there could be no science. Economics, being eminently suspect, demands rigorous adherence to a code which restricts the economist to the following line of questioning: Is any given hypothesis capable of being falsified (and thereby tested)? Is any given theoretical or empirical result analytically correct and logically consistent? What, then, are its economic implications?” There is no way to reply in reciprocally nutritional coin…. “I am as ever indebted to you …”

  A professor at Yale writes that he has submitted a letter to the New York Times which is as yet unpublished, the thesis of it “my solid belief that if we do finally abandon the Republic of China for Peking, the USSR will move into Taiwan. They have every good reason for doing so.” And that is consistent with the letter from a board chairman who participated recently at a weekend conference at which was also present a high U.S. official recently in China. This gentleman confided that his “experience with Mao as well as the existing Chinese leaders, in spite of formal agreements and their rhetoric, has made very clear that there is to be no pressure on resolving the Taiwan issue. In fact, as G—put it: ‘They say …relax …take four years, take ten years, take 100 years.’” That one is worth running down, and I make a note to do so. A month later, “G—” is nominated for the vice-presidency of the United States; four months later, he is elected.

  The wife of a scholar friend, who is herself a scholar, writes to enclose a book of essays on Dante’s Inferno. The introductory essay, by herself, alludes to the use of Dante’s symbols by Whittaker Chambers in Witness. I forward the collection to a Dante scholar at Yale, an old friend. I am reminded of a piece of (excusable?) mischief I got into, intending that old friend a favor. The year was 1965, and I was in the apartment of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Luce—Mrs. Luce wished to talk about the forthcoming tenth-anniversary dinner for National Review that she had agreed to chair. Harry Luce was out at a Council on Foreign Relations dinner and would be back in an hour or so. Mrs. Luce was called to the telephone, and I idled in the study where, on the coffee table, I spotted some galleys. I picked them up. Next week’s book section, Time magazine. The whole of the book section devoted to a single volume! Written by my old friend at Yale. Two hours later, when I left the apartment, I rushed to the pay telephone at the corner, not waiting, even, to get home, ten blocks away. I reached him: Guess what’s being reviewed in next week’s Time …Rave review! …Devoted an entire section to it! … My friend, an unexcitable type, managed a little trace of excitement. “Perhaps I should call the publisher in the morning?” he asked. “Perhaps you should call him tonight, and perhaps you should get a bottle of champagne! …”

  There. I am glad, after all these years, to have got that indiscretion off my chest. It’s time for the noon sight. Will resume tomorrow.

  A professor at St. John’s in Brooklyn, commenting on my response to John Kenneth Galbraith’s The Age of Uncertainty, wishes I would devote more of my attention to the work of Cob-den, who he says was the primary intellectual force for the repeal of the Corn Laws. Right ho. A classmate (who because we did not know each other at Yale addresses me, “Dear Mr. Buckley”) has come across my novel Saving the Queen, and spots the portrait of a pompous and fastidious dean to whom my roommate, early on in freshman year, gave as his excuse for missing a class, “Diarrhea, sir,” earning immunity against any further summons ever after. “I won’t bore you with an account of the atrocities [that dean] committed in my case, but I am very happy that he will be remembered in print accurately. In fairness, he probably was stupid rather than malicious.” Actually, I rather liked the old codger.

  A former official of the USIA writes to tell me he was personally present when an official of the State Department, during the Nixon years, announced that the U.S. Government would do nothing to challenge Soviet inroads into Africa, so that our present policy does not surprise him. And every now and then—the voice from the ideological underworld. This letter informs me that Goleniewski, a Polish defector who served with the Glowny Zar-zad (intelligence), and whose testimony before British and U.S. intelligence has never been impeached in any particular, testified that a Soviet spy ring was formed in 1948 “named ODRA—its purpose … to penetrate U.S. and British intelligence. One agent, according to Goleniewski, coopted by this ring was one Sgt. Henry A. Kissinger, code name BOR. In a 1954 update, this same Henry Kissinger was found working at Harvard University, while moonlighting for the C
IA. Thus the former Secretary of State stands accused, by the greatest known defector to the United States, of being a Communist agent as late as 1954.”

  Well, that certainly is a story. I reply, “Though I think it extremely unlikely, there is no reason to exclude the theoretical possibility that Kissinger might have been a Soviet agent in 1954. I didn’t know him in 1954. I met him in 1955, and can confidently tell you that by then, if he had been a Communist, he had defected. Thank you for writing.” Probably my correspondent will put me down as a naif or, more probably, an unindicted coconspirator. But for the fun of it I must remember, next time I write to H.K., to address him, “Dear BOR,” and see what happens.

  Most letter writers consider themselves sovereign over at least one preserve of facts, however tiny; and woe to the man who steps carelessly onto it. Others are anxious after your ideological purity, and correct you primly, like a teacher picking up a solecism in a student text. Some express outrage, in whatever is the appropriate conjugation…. And then there is the occasional posy. Criticism, after all, includes analytical approval.

  Anthony Lewis of the New York Times writes about a review in National Review: “[The author] suggests that the only countries I would criticize in terms of human rights are South Korea, Chile, and the United States; Even with full allowance for the fun of exaggeration, that is a contemptible lie and he knows it.” The reviewer is grown-up and responsible, and I shall let him handle Mr. Lewis’s ire, though I shall keep a paternal eye on the arguments—after all, I am editor of the journal in which a tort was allegedly committed.