I met him in 1963. I was sitting at my desk at Doubleday & Company, the junior-most executive at what was then the biggest and arguably the best book publisher in the country. The phone rang and a man identifying himself as William Buckley said, “I’ve just read your piece on Mr. Rockefeller and found it arresting. I wonder if you could join me for dinner to discuss it.” I was living in a studio apartment in New York City. He had me at “dinner.”
