His energy, and courage, were relentless, to the end. He suffered a devastating, and cruel pulmonary disease, emphesema, that robbed him of his ability to do what he did best: his ability to write fully.

But he did courageously continue writing, up until his death, books on Barry Goldwater, and Ronald Reagan.

His son, Christopher, wrote a profoundly moving memoir, of his parents, Losing Mum and Pup, which I read last summer, and would recommend to all.

Sadly, there seemed to be a gradual decline, NOT in his intellect, which remained as strong as when he put God and Man at Yale to paper, but in his health, and duties. He gradually gave up more and more, beginning with the editorship of his great creation, NR, in 1988. But he never gave up his profound curiosity, or independence of thought. Agree, or disagree, he knew what he believed, and why. He triggered some eyebrow raising with his advocacy of the legalization of drugs, but whether one thought this was wise or not, no one could legitimately dispute that he provided cogent reasons for his views (good pragmatic ones, for the legalization of drugs).

He sadly lost his wife, several months before his own death, and Charlie Rose, who was a good friend of his (Buckley had an admirable propensity for making friends, across the ideological divide), stated that, seeing Buckley at the latter’s wife’s funeral, made him think he may not last the year.

Sadly WFB passed away, in Feb. of 2008, to the profound, and irreplacable loss to the intelectual, literary, political, and religious world.