STRONG OPINIONS

William F. Buckley, Jr., and the making of modern conservatism.

- LOUIS MENAND

The January 31, 1983, issue of The New Yorker carried the first installment of a two-part article titled “Overdrive.” The piece was autobiographical, written in the form of a journal covering a week in the life of the author, who was William F. Buckley, Jr. It began:

Monday

Gloria Cervantes, our Mexican-American cook, brought my lunch in on a tray: two pieces of whole-wheat toast, each topped with tuna fish and then with a cheese something that my wife, Pat, read about somewhere; a salad; a half bottle of Côte Rôtie (I remember the name of the wine only because it’s the one I have in half bottles), and coffee.

Buckley's ambition was to be, above all, a writer. But his true celebrity derived from being a show unto himself.

Thus deliciously launched, the article proceeded, over many pages (it was the age of print; magazines had many pages), to tell its readers about the steps the author took to have his limousine customized; his recent purchase of a thirty-six-foot sloop, the Patito; his annual ski vacations in Gstaad; his basement Jacuzzi and thirty-foot swimming pool (“the most beautiful indoor swimming pool this side of Pompeii”); his loyal driver, Jerry, a retired New York City fireman (“In fifteen years, I have never heard him complain—not even about his brain-damaged but appar-ently contented daughter, whom he permits to sit with him in the front seat, but only on weekends and when the car is empty or I alone occupy it”); and Pat Buckley’s bespoke Bloody Mary mix, which calls for Campbell’s Beef Broth. Accept no substitutes.

Along the way, names are dropped with a gilded clatter:

I think it’s probably true to say that no one in the world knows both John Kenneth Galbraith and Milton Friedman better than I do.

David Niven bounds over, and we embrace, French style, and gabble as we walk into the sunroom.