AUBERON WAUGH, R.I.P. Therndeath in Janiiaty of the British journalistrn(and Chronicles contributor) occasionedrna startling outpouring of grief. The DailyrnTelegraph of London weighed in withrnfive pages, and that was just on the nextrnday. Every one of Waugh’s many admirersrnwas permitted a remembrance —evenrnin newspapers he had ridiculed, such asrnthe Observer and the Guardian. The coveragernwas so effusive that Waugh’s friendsrnwere embarrassed. His longtime editorrnRichard Ingrams pronounced it “fulsome,”rnand novelist A.N. Wilson chided,rn”Gush, gush.”rnAmerican coverage was more restrained.rnThe New York Times printed arnfirst-rate obituar)’, while the WashingtonrnPost’s was a disgrace. Waugh’s passingrnwent unnoted on the websites of thernAmerican Spectator and National Review,rnalthough he had contributed to bothrnpublications. Their neglect was understandable;rnWaugh had been a stalwartrncold warrior, but after communism’s collapse,rnhe became an enemy of Americanrncultural imperialism. He had kind wordsrnfor Pat Buchanan, and —like all goodrnpeople—was scathing in his denunciationrnof the war on Serbia.rnWaugh’s reputation in America, to thernextent that he had one, was of a minorrnnovelist who abandoned that professionrnwhen he realized he would always berna footnote to his great father, EvelynrnWaugh. In Britain, however, he wasrnmore famous than his father had everrnbeen. His novels are all fine, but hernstopped writing them not only becausernhe considered the rewards not equal tornhis efforts but because he believed (quiternrighdy) that the “humane, bourgeois culture”rnwhich had supported literature hadrndisintegrated.rnWaugh never wavered in his beliefrnthat journalism was an honorable profession.rnHe was an exemplar of a t}’pe thatrnhas all but disappeared in America (andrnCanada) and is fast disappearing inrnBritain: the honest hack. He wrote whatrnhe believed, without fear or favor, andrnhad no time for the prostitution known asrn”movement conservatism.” One day,rnwhile driving a moped, he was so angeredrnby a sign forbidding the consignment ofrndead animals to a reservoir that he attemptedrnto run over a lizard so he couldrnchuck it into the water. He fell off thernmoped into a reverie, which concludedrnin a statement of political philosophy:rnParliament had been passing laws for 700rnyears and didn’t need any more. Politicians,rnregardless of affiliation, were busybodiesrn—or worse. He was disgusted byrnthe encouragement the British governmentrngave to the genocide perpetrated byrnthe Nigerian federal government againstrnsecessionist Biafra. This led to his first independentrncampaign for Parliament; hisrnsecond was an attempt to shame Liberalrnleader Jeremy Thorpe —formally accusedrnof conspiring to murder a homosexualrnlover — into not running for reelection.rn(Thorpe lost; Waugh receivedrn79 votes.)rnWaugh pursued his vendetta againstrnThorpe in his Spectator column, fromrnwhich his election manifesto was banned,rnand in his Private Eye column, which ranrnfrom 1972 to 1986. Here, Waugh createdrna new art form: In an ingenious (andrnlargely successful) ploy to get aroundrnBritain’s notorious libel laws, he toldrnsuch dreadful lies —about himself andrneveryone from the Royal Family tornHarold Wilson to the Pope —that it madernone gasp and stretch one’s eyes. He becamernone of the most feared men inrnBritain.rnHe was certainly the funniest. But hernwas also, as he said, “always joking and alwaysrnserious.” His Private Eye columns,rnpublished as The Diaries of AuberonrnWaugh, are as profound an analysis ofrnBritish decline as Roger Scruton’s. Likernhis father, however, he never repined —rnexcept, perhaps, about the CatholicrnChurch. Unlike his father, he apostatized.rnA lapsed priest in his novel A Bedrnof Flowers declares, “When they announcedrnthat the Mass was no longer arnsacrifice, it had become a meal, I realizedrnthat the institutional form of the Churchrnhad become an empty shell; if thernChurch survives, it survives in the individualrnconsciousness only . . . I will neverrngo through the mocker)’ of a church servicernagain.” For years, Waugh was a followerrnof Archbishop Lefebvre; he thenrndespaired. We can only speculate aboutrnthe state of his soul at the hour of hisrndeath —a death he seemed not to fear.rnHis funeral took place in an Anglicanrnchurch, but a Catholic priest presided.rnHeaven would be an emptier paradisernwithout him.rn—Kevin Michael GracernO B I T E R D I C T A : The dawn of thernthird millennium marks Chronicles’ 25thrnyear of publication. To celebrate, we’rernreleasing a special 60-page issue in July,rnreprinting the best articles from the pastrnquarter-century. Destined to be a collector’srnitem, this issue would also be an idealrnway to introduce your friends and familyrnto Chronicles. Between now and Junern1, you can place advance orders for additionalrncopies by contacting Cindy Linkrnat (815) 964-5813 or Subscriptions® Orders up tornnine copies will be charged at cover pricern(shipping included); orders often orrnmore copies will receive a 20 percent discount.rnCall for information on bulk ratesrn(over 25).rnThe fifth and sixth lines from the endrnof “Democracy and the Art of Handloading”rn{The Hundredth Meridian, February)rnshould of course read, ” . . . row afterrnrow of prett}’ pointed missiles three-anda-rnquarter inches long.” The author regretsrnthe error, as well as the implicationrnthat, in Wyoming, you can’t get a manrnwith a gun (or, anyway, a .270 cartridge).rnThe last two paragraphs, as well as thernlast third of the fifth paragraph from thernend, of “Letter From Venice: The PavlovianrnSandwich” {Correspondence, February)rnshould have been set as indentedrnquotations. We regret the error and offerrnour apologies to Samuel Clemens,rnwhose pen name was actually MarkrnTwain, not Andrei Navrozov.rnCharles Edward Eaton, who lives inrnChapel Hill, North Carolina, is our firstrnpoet this month. Mr. Eaton is the authorrnof 15 collections of poetry (most recently.rnThe ]ogger by the Sea), four volumes ofrnshort stories, and a novel, A Lady of Pleasure.rnHe is the recipient of the NorthrnCarolina Award for Literature, amongrnother prizes. His autobiography, ThernMan From Buena Vista, will be publishedrnthis year.rnOur second poet this month is JohnrnNixon, Jr., a Bellaman Award winnerrnfrom Fork Union, Virginia, who was coeditorrnof the Lyric for 16 years. His poetryrnhas appeared in, among others, thernNew Yorker, America, Christian Century,rnthe New York Times, and the Georgia Review.rnChronicles is illustrated this month byrnSt. Petersburg native Anatol Woolf,rnwho, since coming to America in 1987,rnhas been a frequent contributing artistrnto Chronicles, as well as to the WashingtonrnPost, the Washington Times, PolicyrnReview, National Geographic Traveler,rnLegal Times, and Cricket. Mr. Woolfrnworks with a variety of materials, from watercolorsrnto pencil to acrylic. Furtherrnsamples of his work are available on hisrnWeb page: