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March 6, 1999. Written on his letterhead and referring to the biography under discussion: "Well, it's a fine book! I haven't been free to simply read it through -- this is a tough mid-term time -- but I've sampled generously with the aid of the Index. Just last night I finally started in at the beginning. With the caveat that what I'm asking about may reside on a page I've not found, I'll report two elements I think may be missing. The first is the starkness of Ken's politics. He was positively medieval in his sudden and utter proscription of anyone he deemed to have consorted with the enemy. Friends who turned out to have voted for Ike instead of Adlai he banished from his acquaintance forever. No phone calls. No letters. Nothing. My wife Mary Jo died while I was east on a sabbatical; I returned remarried. The Santa Barbara News-Press came upon the fact that our best man had been Bill Buckley. Ken read that and never spoke to me again. We met once, accidentally, in a store. He glared and walked out. My last glimpse of him, fall 1965. Margaret was equally unforgiving. Her bias was against people she thought were tempting Ken back toward the academe she had so fiercely renounced. All in all, an odd couple. God knows what Linda's home life was like." Fine with the hand-addressed mailing envelope present.”
March 6, 1999. Written on his letterhead and referring to the biography under discussion: "Well, it's a fine book! I haven't been free to simply read it through -- this is a tough mid-term time -- but I've sampled generously with the aid of the Index. Just last night I finally started in at the beginning. With the caveat that what I'm asking about may reside on a page I've not found, I'll report two elements I think may be missing. The first is the starkness of Ken's politics. He was positively medieval in his sudden and utter proscription of anyone he deemed to have consorted with the enemy. Friends who turned out to have voted for Ike instead of Adlai he banished from his acquaintance forever. No phone calls. No letters. Nothing. My wife Mary Jo died while I was east on a sabbatical; I returned remarried. The Santa Barbara News-Press came upon the fact that our best man had been Bill Buckley. Ken read that and never spoke to me again. We met once, accidentally, in a store. He glared and walked out. My last glimpse of him, fall 1965. Margaret was equally unforgiving. Her bias was against people she thought were tempting Ken back toward the academe she had so fiercely renounced. All in all, an odd couple. God knows what Linda's home life was like." Fine with the hand-addressed mailing envelope present.”