Farewell, William F. Buckley Jr.
Nov. 1925-Feb. 27, 2008
Daniel J. Williams
Issue date: 2/28/08 Section: Opinion
It is only convenient to bypass the Buckleys when recalling the great American dynasties. Others emerge, names conveying the panache and power of the American ruling and industrial class - Kennedys, Astors and Rockefellers. The Buckleys - and specifically their most noted member, William Frank Jr. - have not bothered to cultivate fully the elitism of that select class. William, privileged though he was, inherited a worldview attuned to other things than money, power and recognition, instead focusing on intellectual, moral and spiritual perfection.
He was, in the words of a friend and associate, a boulder dropped into a still pond. And ripples remain.
"Should I have mentioned that I was the son of a wealthy father, in order to explain a prejudice in favor of capitalism?" Buckley asked in his 1977 book, "God and Man at Yale." That work and the visceral reaction to it present perhaps the best prism through which to view Buckley's elitist conservatism. In 1946, the still pond standing before him was the storied campus of Yale, a veritable enclave of liberalism, a pageantry of elitism.
Buckley arrived at Yale in 1946 after a comfortable, structured, and rigorous childhood. Yet his upbringing was in no way devoid of spiritual substance. When Buckley graduated from Yale in 1950 as class orator, he was already mulling words of a different tone he would soon express on paper. And his fresh perceptions of college were spiritual. The impulse upon which he acted, after the denizens of Yale had disappointed him, was the same impulse he had acted on as a youngster when, concerned for a house guest's spiritual condition, he had surreptitiously baptized her by applying a wet finger to her forehead. It was the urge to fill spiritual void, the willingness to address a problem with quick action unimpaired by the opinions of social peers.
The confidence of a balanced, acculturated mind led Buckley not to wade slowly into uncharted waters, but to plunge in fully and all at once. "God and Man at Yale" hit the presses in the fall of 1951, and was met immediately with derision by those made culpable in its pages and their defenders.
Therein, Buckley declared that Yale had lost its sense of mission. And he took names. It was a stand he took willingly, but he bore enough humility to revisit the book, placing it within his own critical purview under the glare of detractors on all sides.
Buckley's impact has emerged directly from the conjunction of his elitism and conservatism. Buckley has, in the intervening years since he shook Yale and emboldened a nascent movement, invested energy and capital into American conservatism.
Compared to a previous era, when conservatives were freely marginalized - and they still are - the establishment now warily realizes suppression of ideological dissent is no longer palatable. That revolutionary awareness has arisen largely from the articulation of conservatism by individuals who authoritatively communicate it.
Buckley speaks from a different cultural footing, yet his stance bridges a divide that until his arrival was largely an impasse. Nevertheless, it is difficult to imagine Buckley's platform without his pedigree. Armed thus, he could frequent lecterns inaccessible to most other conservatives, bringing with him not only the ability to relate to the audience, but the intelligence to articulate new ideas, and radical, depending on his listeners.
In warfare, subterfuge is often the best weapon, implemented by those who know well the conduct and mannerisms of the enemy, and then employ that knowledge against it.
Perhaps in America's ideological conflict, the conservative cause required someone already on the inside, someone close to the pond in the first place, near enough to stir the surface and upset decades of quiet. Yet once Buckley caused a stir, he remained and articulated conservatism from inside a bubble few Americans could effectively reach. Yet Buckley was an elitist in the social sense, some ascribing that quality even to his elocution. But absent is the effrontery of isolated superiority. In its place is the vibrant demonstration that conservatism, far from dour, is intellectually quick, entirely defensible and thoroughly fun.
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Hillsdale College Collegian 2008
He was, in the words of a friend and associate, a boulder dropped into a still pond. And ripples remain.
"Should I have mentioned that I was the son of a wealthy father, in order to explain a prejudice in favor of capitalism?" Buckley asked in his 1977 book, "God and Man at Yale." That work and the visceral reaction to it present perhaps the best prism through which to view Buckley's elitist conservatism. In 1946, the still pond standing before him was the storied campus of Yale, a veritable enclave of liberalism, a pageantry of elitism.
Buckley arrived at Yale in 1946 after a comfortable, structured, and rigorous childhood. Yet his upbringing was in no way devoid of spiritual substance. When Buckley graduated from Yale in 1950 as class orator, he was already mulling words of a different tone he would soon express on paper. And his fresh perceptions of college were spiritual. The impulse upon which he acted, after the denizens of Yale had disappointed him, was the same impulse he had acted on as a youngster when, concerned for a house guest's spiritual condition, he had surreptitiously baptized her by applying a wet finger to her forehead. It was the urge to fill spiritual void, the willingness to address a problem with quick action unimpaired by the opinions of social peers.
The confidence of a balanced, acculturated mind led Buckley not to wade slowly into uncharted waters, but to plunge in fully and all at once. "God and Man at Yale" hit the presses in the fall of 1951, and was met immediately with derision by those made culpable in its pages and their defenders.
Therein, Buckley declared that Yale had lost its sense of mission. And he took names. It was a stand he took willingly, but he bore enough humility to revisit the book, placing it within his own critical purview under the glare of detractors on all sides.
Buckley's impact has emerged directly from the conjunction of his elitism and conservatism. Buckley has, in the intervening years since he shook Yale and emboldened a nascent movement, invested energy and capital into American conservatism.
Compared to a previous era, when conservatives were freely marginalized - and they still are - the establishment now warily realizes suppression of ideological dissent is no longer palatable. That revolutionary awareness has arisen largely from the articulation of conservatism by individuals who authoritatively communicate it.
Buckley speaks from a different cultural footing, yet his stance bridges a divide that until his arrival was largely an impasse. Nevertheless, it is difficult to imagine Buckley's platform without his pedigree. Armed thus, he could frequent lecterns inaccessible to most other conservatives, bringing with him not only the ability to relate to the audience, but the intelligence to articulate new ideas, and radical, depending on his listeners.
In warfare, subterfuge is often the best weapon, implemented by those who know well the conduct and mannerisms of the enemy, and then employ that knowledge against it.
Perhaps in America's ideological conflict, the conservative cause required someone already on the inside, someone close to the pond in the first place, near enough to stir the surface and upset decades of quiet. Yet once Buckley caused a stir, he remained and articulated conservatism from inside a bubble few Americans could effectively reach. Yet Buckley was an elitist in the social sense, some ascribing that quality even to his elocution. But absent is the effrontery of isolated superiority. In its place is the vibrant demonstration that conservatism, far from dour, is intellectually quick, entirely defensible and thoroughly fun.
Clickhere for more stories.
Hillsdale College Collegian 2008
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