Tart, generous, yet still hostile. Worth a read as Wolcott often is, when his dyspepsia doesn't make him sound like an even grumpier version of Mickey:

Carrying his clipboard like a discus, Buckley slouched into the studio glare of the Jack Paar show or reposed on the set of David Susskind and uncoiled his cobra act, mesmerizing the audience and his antagonists with a battery of mannerisms, his eyes widening with a gleaming twinkle just before he went for the kill.

This was funny. Does anyone in his magazine reflect his sensibility any more? None that I can think of.

We want to hear what you think about this article. Submit a letter to the editor or write to letters@theatlantic.com.