Buckley, a Renaissance man in the truest sense of the word, leaves behind a list of accomplishments far too long to list here--not the least of which was a 57-year marriage to the same woman, the late and gracious Patricia, and his son, the talented and sardonic Christopher Buckley. Indeed, the Internet itself could barely contain all the man produced, influenced, lived, and loved in the mere 82 years he strode across the earth. Born to a multimillionaire family, he exuded a uniquely American nobility in every way, from his bizarrely "British-ish" accent to his love of the harpsichord.

Born in 1925, he spent most of his formative years beyond the shores of the nation he would come to defend in print with every fiber of his being, taking his schooling in Paris, London, and Mexico. Never above biting the hand that fed him, Buckley made his first mark on the literary world with the publication of God and Man at Yale, a blistering (and brazen) attack on the university which had, he argued, betrayed its historical charge and charter.

While Buckley was famed for oh, so many things--founding National Review, fighting with Gore Vidal, chatting with Johnny Carson, running for mayor of New York, almost single-handedly destroying the credibility and public image of the John Birch Society, writing spy novels, and more--I remember the man that captivated my childhood with a devastating and withering wit, verbally eviscerating his opponents on Firing Line.

Though I was a Marxist from the time I read The Communist Manifesto in the sixth grade, still I watched Buckley with something beyond admiration. Though I hated everything he said, I was in utter awe of the way he said it, and the thoroughness of every position he chose to argue. Could one but accept his premises, his conclusions were always entirely logical and unassailable. Much as I wished to find him wrong, I never could.

Yet, with the dogmatism Marxism always seems to breed, I held to the faith of my insistence, assured that I was right, even when I inevitably had to concede the debate to the Buckleys of the world. I remember seeing him rhetorically rip astronomer Carl Sagan's smugly self-righteous anti-nuclearism into tiny, quivering bits. I was devastated. It was the night after The Day After, a tv-movie I was convinced would lead to the triumph of a will to peace in America. No such luck. And, I now willingly concede, rightly so.

Liberal as I was, Buckley's brilliance captivated me. I venture to say it did most people who ever were exposed to it. Now, alas, in the way that time has of dimming that which once shined brightly, no doubt we will eventually come to a time when few remember Buckley with great intensity. But if any visual or auditory evidence remains of him, there will ever be those who will be stunned and entranced by his wisdom, his wit, and his blazing intellect. And now we who saw him first may envy those who will read of his passing and seek to know who he was.

For it would be sweet to discover such a man again. Sadly, there will never be another like him.

Rest in peace, William F. Buckley. And--though no doubt you have already heard it--"well done."