Memoirs are one of my favorite genres. Right up there with histories, Victorian novels, travelogues and poetry. Everyone has a story. Because of my own personal history, I am all the more interested when the story involves the loss of a parent. That sounds twisted, but think of it as “comparing notes.”
My first impression of William F. Buckley was “his vocabulary is massive.” And so, in my early twenties, I began reading his Blackford Oakes Novels with a dictionary, pen and paper next to me. I was on a treasure hunt and looked up every word I didn’t know. Buckley taught me more words than my English teacher with the southern drawl whose last name I can’t remember. [Her first name was Agnes. I can still see her standing before the class giving a quiz; she said incongruous with a lilt that came out in-Con-gress. Forever will Congress and incongruous be linked in my brain.]
Firing Line was one of the shows we hated to miss. We would scurry around finishing our chores, so we could sit down together and watch Buckley at play. His eyes widened, he grinned and out came something erudite.
I haven’t purchased this book whose publishing date is 2009. But I am eager to read it.