When the terrible sad news of Bill Buckley's death came, I reached for my folder of letters we'd exchanged over the years. It's a thick file, and it makes me well up a bit to realize that I can expect no more bright white envelopes with the familiar blue lettering.

That Bill should have taken notice of me at all was a bit incongruous. By the time I was old enough to write to him — the 1970s when I was in high school — he was a world-renowned public intellectual. Yet he took ...

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