William F. Buckley died today, aged 82, at his desk. His cook found him at 10 a.m.
I found myself drawn to his intelligence, energy, immensity of output and influence, charm. By the greatness of the life he lived. By the idea that he was not like today’s conservatives, bullying, nasty, bankrupt, partisan, that he treated his opponents with respect, was decent, gracious, large.
This is the impression I’ve formed from a distance, not paying much attention. A certain fondness, even though I had no affinity for most of what he stood for, and to pick up a copy of the National Review made me clench my teeth with fear and loathing. To me Buckley was like a pope—his presence forced me to give consideration to what I didn’t agree with. He had that kind of ballast.
We grew up watching Buckley perform on Firing Line on our black-and-white TV, that sprawling presence, the darting tongue, flashing eyes, feral smile, the evident joy he took in measuring, pouncing on and dismantling his opponents, the sheer style and humor with which he did it. We didn’t like him, but we were mesmerized by him.
Our father expressed admiration for Buckley, along with amusement at his mannerisms. This led to a period of years when a Buckley book was regarded as the logical birthday and Christmas present for Dad; when these events came around we pooled our money and bought him one, until at last one Christmas, after he ripped off the wrapping paper, he couldn’t help exclaiming, in a somewhat exasperated voice, “Who told you guys I like Buckley anyway?” There was a pause for us all to gulp. Then the reprieve: “I mean I do,” he said, “but…” I don’t think he read any of them.
Here’s the other connection: Eudie, my mom’s friend from girlhood, worked for Buckley in the early years of the National Review, as a secretary. She spoke of him with reverence.
He was a figure from my childhood, one who in recent years I would turn to for a principled conservative opinion on the war in Iraq, at a time when I didn't know what to think. I probably wouldn’t agree with him but I had to take him seriously. I could trust in his integrity and had to respect his opinion. For whatever reason, I assigned him not just with intelligence but with wisdom.
Showing posts with label lives. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lives. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Monday, July 23, 2007
A good priest
June 16
There was mention of Joe H. at mass on Sunday. Father Joe. A good man and a good priest, of compassion and courage. He ran afoul of diocesan authorities for his attempts to minister to homosexuals.
What actually happened was he caught the attention of a handful of truly rabid homophobes, who then, as guardians of orthodoxy, took as their blood mission to run him out of the priesthood. The bishop was not strong enough to stand up to them, was in fact enraged at having been put in the position of having to do so. Joe was to him a problem priest, and was soon disappeared. He has now surfaced in New Jersey, where one presumes that there are other voices in addition to the homophobic. He is still, thank God for the rest of us, a priest.
I wish I had been close enough with him that we could’ve remained friends. That would’ve been some kind of break for me, a break from reticence. Those are my second and third responses to hearing his name; pangs of regret. (My first response was to remember him fondly.)
I tend to blame myself, but in truth, I tried to start a relationship with Joe. Invited him over for dinner, more than once. Engaged him in email correspondence. Approached him on the running trail. We became friendly, but not friends. He had too many sheep to tend, and was in some ways more guarded than I was.
During those dinners here, he opened up. Literally took off his collar and lounged on the sofa, his thick gray hunting socks and huge pale calves protruding from his too-short black pant legs: the image of a New Jersey farm boy. Plied with a bit of Scotch, he dished the dirt, compared being called before the bishop to “getting into a pissing match with a skunk,” and also spoke sanely and sensitively and with conviction about important things. He especially liked Lola, in part, I think, because she is not Catholic. She liked him too, always favored him with a warm hug after mass. But when those dinners were over, the veil went back up.
We knew nothing, really, of his troubles—except what appeared in the newspaper: scathing letters to the editor written by his enemies and the tepid responses from the chancery. Knew that he was unhappy as a diocesan priest, heard that he had tried to join the Maryknolls and was rejected. In preparation for that application, he had gone to South America to study Spanish, and picked up an intestinal bug, and lost a lot of weight. (He was pleased afterward, said he’d been trying to lose.)
And then he disappeared. Eventually I discovered by googling him a couple of snippets indicating that he had gone back to New Jersey, but there was nothing definitive until this past Sunday, when our deacon mentioned that he had come for a visit. I was sorry that I had missed him.
There was mention of Joe H. at mass on Sunday. Father Joe. A good man and a good priest, of compassion and courage. He ran afoul of diocesan authorities for his attempts to minister to homosexuals.
What actually happened was he caught the attention of a handful of truly rabid homophobes, who then, as guardians of orthodoxy, took as their blood mission to run him out of the priesthood. The bishop was not strong enough to stand up to them, was in fact enraged at having been put in the position of having to do so. Joe was to him a problem priest, and was soon disappeared. He has now surfaced in New Jersey, where one presumes that there are other voices in addition to the homophobic. He is still, thank God for the rest of us, a priest.
I wish I had been close enough with him that we could’ve remained friends. That would’ve been some kind of break for me, a break from reticence. Those are my second and third responses to hearing his name; pangs of regret. (My first response was to remember him fondly.)
I tend to blame myself, but in truth, I tried to start a relationship with Joe. Invited him over for dinner, more than once. Engaged him in email correspondence. Approached him on the running trail. We became friendly, but not friends. He had too many sheep to tend, and was in some ways more guarded than I was.
During those dinners here, he opened up. Literally took off his collar and lounged on the sofa, his thick gray hunting socks and huge pale calves protruding from his too-short black pant legs: the image of a New Jersey farm boy. Plied with a bit of Scotch, he dished the dirt, compared being called before the bishop to “getting into a pissing match with a skunk,” and also spoke sanely and sensitively and with conviction about important things. He especially liked Lola, in part, I think, because she is not Catholic. She liked him too, always favored him with a warm hug after mass. But when those dinners were over, the veil went back up.
We knew nothing, really, of his troubles—except what appeared in the newspaper: scathing letters to the editor written by his enemies and the tepid responses from the chancery. Knew that he was unhappy as a diocesan priest, heard that he had tried to join the Maryknolls and was rejected. In preparation for that application, he had gone to South America to study Spanish, and picked up an intestinal bug, and lost a lot of weight. (He was pleased afterward, said he’d been trying to lose.)
And then he disappeared. Eventually I discovered by googling him a couple of snippets indicating that he had gone back to New Jersey, but there was nothing definitive until this past Sunday, when our deacon mentioned that he had come for a visit. I was sorry that I had missed him.
Herman Wells of Indiana
May 23
In Bloomington for a conference last week, I saw plentiful evidence of one man’s legacy, how much good a single man with vision and energy can leave behind. The man was IU’s longtime president, Herman B. Wells.
I do not know where Wells came from, or how he got to the top. I don’t even know his academic specialty. But I walked through the magnificent concert hall that he had built, and I toured the Kinsey Institute, whose controversial mission he stoutly defended, and I walked (and ran) the beautiful campus he planned and developed, with its distinctive limestone buildings and its copious, richly imagined greenspace, and I didn’t wonder that people spoke of him always with reverence and awe.
His portraits are numerous around campus, a stout, round-faced, pleasant-looking man in a tan, 50s-era suit. So are the stories: of how he used to attend weeknight student recitals well into his 80s, of how he .
Perhaps the most impressive story was this: that through the worst of the McCarthy era, this lifelong bachelor, who lived with his mother until she died in her 90s, whose sexuality was a well-guarded secret, had the courage to resolutely defend Alfred Kinsey’s right to conduct and publish his research.
Surely MyU has never had such a leader.
In Bloomington for a conference last week, I saw plentiful evidence of one man’s legacy, how much good a single man with vision and energy can leave behind. The man was IU’s longtime president, Herman B. Wells.
I do not know where Wells came from, or how he got to the top. I don’t even know his academic specialty. But I walked through the magnificent concert hall that he had built, and I toured the Kinsey Institute, whose controversial mission he stoutly defended, and I walked (and ran) the beautiful campus he planned and developed, with its distinctive limestone buildings and its copious, richly imagined greenspace, and I didn’t wonder that people spoke of him always with reverence and awe.
His portraits are numerous around campus, a stout, round-faced, pleasant-looking man in a tan, 50s-era suit. So are the stories: of how he used to attend weeknight student recitals well into his 80s, of how he .
Perhaps the most impressive story was this: that through the worst of the McCarthy era, this lifelong bachelor, who lived with his mother until she died in her 90s, whose sexuality was a well-guarded secret, had the courage to resolutely defend Alfred Kinsey’s right to conduct and publish his research.
Surely MyU has never had such a leader.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Profiles in courage, and other virtues
There were three interesting obituaries in today's New York Times:
The first tells the story of William R. Anderson, the Navy commander who in August 1958 led the nuclear sub Nautilus on a historic voyage to the North Pole. "At a time of rivalry between the United States and the Soviet Union over who would first send humans into space," the paper says, "the accomplishment was greeted by banner headlines around the world." The Nautilus traveled 8,146 nautical miles in 21 days, "much of the way under the polar ice." The crew charted holes in the ice in case of emergency.
Anderson was a country boy from Tennessee, who later was elected to Congress. There in 1970 he stood up on the House floor to denounce J. Edgar Hoover for attacking Dan and Phil Berrigan for their opposition to the Vietnam War. Hoover's claim that the Berrigans were planning to kidnap a government official, Anderson said, was over-the-top McCarthyism. A Democrat, Anderson had been a supporter of the war, but changed his mind after visiting Vietnam.
The second remembers Henri Troyat, French writer of 105 books, whose name I have heard, whose books I may have, but who I have never read. "A day without writing made him feel like a sinner," remembers one of his comrades. Troyat claimed to have taught himself to write by reading paragraphs from Flaubert, then trying to rewrite them from memory. Then he would compare his version to the original, and "try to understand why what I had written was an affront to what I had read." He wrote mostly novels and biographies, and his style was "above all accessible." He was 95.
The third describes the AIDS-shortened life of Bob Hattoy, an adviser to Bill Clinton on gay issues. Hattoy is remembered as a fighter, someone who was never satisfied. In a televised speech at the 1992 Democratic National Convention, soon after he had learned he had the disease, he addressed himself to President George H.W.Bush: "I don't want to die," he said. "But I don't want to live in an America where the president sees me as the enemy." His words apparently gave many people hope. He was 56 when he died.
The first tells the story of William R. Anderson, the Navy commander who in August 1958 led the nuclear sub Nautilus on a historic voyage to the North Pole. "At a time of rivalry between the United States and the Soviet Union over who would first send humans into space," the paper says, "the accomplishment was greeted by banner headlines around the world." The Nautilus traveled 8,146 nautical miles in 21 days, "much of the way under the polar ice." The crew charted holes in the ice in case of emergency.
Anderson was a country boy from Tennessee, who later was elected to Congress. There in 1970 he stood up on the House floor to denounce J. Edgar Hoover for attacking Dan and Phil Berrigan for their opposition to the Vietnam War. Hoover's claim that the Berrigans were planning to kidnap a government official, Anderson said, was over-the-top McCarthyism. A Democrat, Anderson had been a supporter of the war, but changed his mind after visiting Vietnam.
The second remembers Henri Troyat, French writer of 105 books, whose name I have heard, whose books I may have, but who I have never read. "A day without writing made him feel like a sinner," remembers one of his comrades. Troyat claimed to have taught himself to write by reading paragraphs from Flaubert, then trying to rewrite them from memory. Then he would compare his version to the original, and "try to understand why what I had written was an affront to what I had read." He wrote mostly novels and biographies, and his style was "above all accessible." He was 95.
The third describes the AIDS-shortened life of Bob Hattoy, an adviser to Bill Clinton on gay issues. Hattoy is remembered as a fighter, someone who was never satisfied. In a televised speech at the 1992 Democratic National Convention, soon after he had learned he had the disease, he addressed himself to President George H.W.Bush: "I don't want to die," he said. "But I don't want to live in an America where the president sees me as the enemy." His words apparently gave many people hope. He was 56 when he died.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
In memoriam
There’s a moving tribute in this week’s America to Robert Drinan, the Jesuit priest who served in Congress back in the ‘70s, then returned to legal scholarship at Georgetown when ordered to do so by the pope. The author, Ladislas Orsy, another Jesuit legal scholar (and one I’ve had the pleasure of meeting, a learned, gentle man), does not dwell on Drinan’s accomplishments, but on his love and generosity, his constant reaching out to people in need. Orsy paraphrases Aristotle and Aquinas in explaining Drinan’s drive and his vast impact, that “goodness cannot contain itself: it is expansive by nature like a wellspring with unlimited supply.” He imagines Drinan 60 years ago as a young Jesuit in Florence, reading Dante on divine love. From there, “he set out on an adventure to mend this broken world.” Requiescat in pace.
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