I cannot recall ever knowing a better man than Bill Buckley, nor can I think of any other figure in my lifetime who might be said to resemble him. Ludovico Ariosto's description of the central character of his epic poem, Orlando Furioso comes to mind. "Natura il fece, e poi roppe la stampa."

Such was William F. Buckley, a man whose virtues, high character and talents were so uncommon and exceptional that I venture to think that he will be looked upon by future generations with the sort of esteem and reverence usually reserved for writers and thinkers who have become part of the Western canon. That there is a political and cultural movement today calling itself conservative—-a term both shunned and renounced in the years prior to the foundation of the National Review by such figures as Albert Jay Nock, H.L. Menken, Herbert Hoover and Robert Taft, all of whom were called conservatives—-is entirely due to Bill, who was wise enough to distinguish the genius of Edmund Burke and Adam Smith from the cant and fanfaronade of Miniver Cheevy. He and the fortnightly he founded,  the National Review,  are the fons et origo of the modern American conservative movement.