<b>A Sad Farewell to Alumnus, William F. Buckley, Jr. ’43</b>

All at Millbrook were saddened to learn that we had lost a loyal alumnus, a world-renowned figure and a friend on Wednesday, February 27 with the death of Bill Buckley, a member of the class of 1943. Founding editor of the National Review, 33-year host of PBS’s Firing Line, and author of 55 books and 5600 newspaper columns, Bill died at his desk in his study at the age of 82, no doubt writing up to the very end. Our thoughts are with his family and, in particular, his two Millbrook brothers, F. Reid ’48 and James ’40. His beloved wife, Pat, died in April of 2007.

We had the distinct pleasure of interviewing Bill for Millbrook’s 75th Anniversary documentary film, “Down School Road: Millbrook at 75”, in October of 2006 at his home in Stamford, Connecticut. He was filled with many razor-sharp and fond memories of his years at Millbrook and his lifelong friendship with Founding Headmaster Edward Pulling. As he explained at that time, “We moved back from Europe in the late thirties, and my father was looking around for appropriate schools for his boys (there were four of us)…He turned down Hotchkiss and went to Millbrook, and the rest is happy history.”

“Mr. Pulling (Bill did not address Mr. Pulling as Ed, as he explained, “I simply couldn’t bring myself to do it.”) was a singular figure, very sure of himself, very self possessed. He was starting a school in order to accomplish something having to do with the formation of character and sending young boys in the direction in which they would not lose their perspective of what American citizenship meant.” They became friends after Bill had graduated from Yale and had served in World War II, and when Mr. Pulling died in 1991, Bill was speaker at his memorial service on campus.

During the film interview Bill talked fondly of his being the founding editor of the school’s yearbook, the Tamarack: “Somewhere along the line in my junior year, I wondered why Millbrook didn’t have a yearbook. So, Jerry Franks, who was in the same class as I, decided we’d start one. It was quite an enterprise, and we had the cooperation of Mr. Pulling on the understanding that there would be no subsidy involved…” Bill’s story of his first foray into publishing was the subject of the film clip which can be seen on our website in its entirety.

Bill also looked back with fondness at some of the early Millbrook faculty. About Nat Abbott he said, “He did a lot to stimulate my own passion for music.” About Rene Clark, “He had an extraordinary gift for languages.” Fred Knutson was “an omnipresence,” Frank McGiffert, “a magnificent, marvelous teacher…a truly talented man” and  Frank Trevor, “a man of enormous talent. A born naturalist.” We were delighted to have had the chance to get on film Bill Buckley’s unique perspective about Millbrook in the 1940’s.     

Bill has been on campus several times in recent years, but the most memorable was during his 50th reunion in 1993. At that time, he delighted everyone in the Flagler Library by staging an episode of Firing Line (complete with a tape recording of his theme music) during which he “interviewed” his Millbrook roommate and prominent historian, Alistair Horne, whose book, Bundles from Britain, had just recently been published. Although he was unable to attend Millbrook’s 75th Anniversary celebration in June of 2007 and the screening of “Down School Road: Millbrook at 75” in which he played a prominent role, he was appreciative of having been a part of the project and called the film, “superb.”

Millbrook School has indeed lost one of its stars. Now, perhaps, he and Mr. Pulling can continue joyfully, their beloved debates.

You can read Bill’s full obituary in the New York Times.

Below is a tribute to Bill Buckley written for the National Review from his lifelong friend and Millbrook roommate, Alistair Horne. Said Alistair upon submitting these words to Millbrook, “He was always an anchor and a tower in my life, as well as a beloved friend. For this I thank Millbrook.”

In an introduction to my Small Earthquake in Chile, Bill wrote [in 1989]
“.... I have known the author a very long time and, since it is likelier he will write my obituary than I will write his (I smoke cigars), I see no reason to turn down this opportunity to write a few lines about him...”

I hoped most fervently that his prediction would never come to pass. But it has.

Bill was, quite simply, my oldest and dearest friend. Sixty five years is a long time; in American History terms, from Appomattox to the Great Depression. It all began, at Millbrook School, NY--in mutual political antipathy. He stood for Isolationism; I, as a “Bundle from Britain,” for Intervention against Hitler. In debate, he always won; then, with Pearl Harbor, all changed. We became roommates, and best friends. He typed my essays, at prodigious speed, $1 per thousand words; I fed him jazz via an illegal home-made radio. We were united in revolt against authority. He welcomed me into the bosom of his wonderfully open-hearted family, in nearby Sharon, Conn. He became the brother I never had--and more.

Bill taught me the meaning of friendship. It never flagged; he was always there, always with his cheery ‘Hi, Al!’ on the phone. I introduced him to skiing; he led me to Bach. I think I may have disappointed him: e.g., in not converting to Catholicism, in not following his Conservatism all the way--and in not having my book on Henry Kissinger ready for him to read. But he never chided.

I sometimes pondered on what our friendship was based. Perhaps it was because there were 3,000 miles separating us. But possibly because we also had an unspoken acceptance of each other’s essential loneliness. Strange, for someone so-- perforce--gregarious, but for Bill I always felt the speed of a phenomenal mind induced a certain isolation; to wit, his impatient urge to leave any dinner party by 10pm.

More than just friendship; in his perpetual striving for excellence, Bill was a lifelong beacon. He wrote over fifty books; I some twenty, but I doubt I would have written any but for Bill’s example, and exhortation.

I felt the Good Lord did not pay back Bill’s devotion in his last years: depriving him of his hearing, and all that that meant; of his mobility, and most cruelly of all, of Pat. The world grew a burden. I suggested he should write the book about Ronald Reagan, hoping it would give him a renewed interest in life. But, like Schubert, he never finished...

In our youths, we both venerated Antoine de St. Exupéry, for his eloquence and carefree courage. In Wind, Sand and Stars Exupéry wrote:

“Thus is the earth at once a desert and a paradise ... life may scatter us and keep us apart; it may prevent us from thinking very often of one another, but we know that our comrades are somewhere ‘out there’ ... bit by bit, nevertheless, comes over us that we shall never again hear the laughter of our friend, that this one garden is forever locked against us. And at that moment begins our true mourning...”

Yes--and No. I refuse to accept that this great spirit is not still “out there,” somewhere. I shall hear his laughter, and the “Hi, Al!” every remaining day of my life.