As published in The Information
The Opening
William F. Buckley Jr. settles into his chair at center stage, that familiar aristocratic posture, the slight lean back, fingers steepled. He clicks his tongue—tsk—that peculiar metronome of contemplation that accompanied a thousand televised debates. His eyes scan the panel with an expression somewhere between amusement and concern.
To his left: James Baldwin, compact and intense, eyes that have seen too much and refuse to look away. Gore Vidal, languid and dangerous, already composing his first verbal strike. Edward R. Murrow, cigarette somehow present despite all regulations, the newsman's eternal prop. George Carlin, white-haired and impish, looking like he's about to expose everyone's pretensions.
To his right: Henry Kissinger, heavy with the weight of nations and secrets. Larry Bird, looking slightly uncomfortable in this company but utterly unbothered by it, like a man who's been booed by Boston fans and survived. Stephen Miller, young and certain, jaw set. And the mystery guest, features obscured but presence unmistakable—the elephant in the room wearing an unconvincing disguise.
Buckley clears his throat. The tongue-click again. Tsk-tsk.
"Gentlemen," he begins, drawing out the word with that patrician Connecticut drawl, "in my day—and I say this with full awareness of how that phrase ages me—Republicans stood for certain identifiable principles: fiscal responsibility, limited federal government, free markets, institutional respect, the notion that character mattered in public office, and a certain... decorum... in discourse."
He pauses, pen twirling between his fingers.
"Democrats, meanwhile, stood for the working man, for organized labor, for social programs, for civil rights—eventually—and for a robust federal government as the solution to collective problems. There was daylight between these positions. Clear daylight."
He leans back. "Gentlemen, I open the floor."
The Conversation Begins
Edward R. Murrow lights his cigarette, the ember glowing in the stage lights. His voice is measured, the broadcaster's trained instrument.
"Bill, you speak of clarity. Let me tell you about clarity. In my time, we had three networks. People watched the same news, heard the same facts, then argued about what those facts meant. That was healthy. We had gatekeepers—yes, imperfect, sometimes biased—but they understood that facts were facts."
He exhales smoke. "Today? We have infinite channels and zero shared reality. It's not that we disagree on what facts mean—we can't even agree on what facts are. 'Fake news' isn't a critique; it's a weapon."
James Baldwin leans forward, his voice quiet but intense.
"Eddie speaks of shared reality. But let me ask: when was this golden age of shared facts? When I wrote The Fire Next Time, white America didn't want to hear the facts about what was happening in Birmingham, in Mississippi, in Harlem. The facts were there—lynchings, bombings, daily humiliations—but facts don't matter if people refuse to see them."
He looks directly at the mystery guest. "Executive orders used like royal decrees, not because it's effective governance but because it's visible governance. It's performance. Sign something on television, hold it up for the cameras, and your supporters believe you've done something even if it gets struck down in court a week later. It's not about policy. It's about theater."
Gore Vidal laughs, a sharp bark of aristocratic disdain.
"Jimmy, you're too kind. At least theater has artistic merit. This is professional wrestling. Buckley here wants to know what happened to his Republican Party—the party of Taft, of Eisenhower, of genteel conservatism. I'll tell you what happened: it died. It was murdered."
He gestures broadly. "The Republican Party Bill built—intellectual conservatism, National Review, the Buckley style of debate—it was killed by its own success. You taught conservatives they were intellectually respectable. So they stopped being intellectual. Why read Burke when you can watch Fox News?"
The Clash
Baldwin turns to Miller. "You speak of 'the will of the elected executive' as if it's a mandate from heaven. But let me ask you directly: when that executive issues orders to separate children from their parents at the border, to ban Muslims from entering the country, to roll back protections for transgender children—is that restoring democracy or is that tyranny with a ballot box?"
Miller doesn't flinch. "Those are policy choices. You can disagree with them. That's your right. But they're not tyranny—they're governance."
Baldwin's voice rises slightly, still controlled but with steel underneath. "Policy. You call cruelty policy. You call discrimination policy. This is what I mean about shared reality—you see orders, I see children crying for their parents. Saying something is policy doesn't make it right. It just makes it organized."
Larry Bird speaks up. "I keep hearing about checks and balances, activist judges, all this inside baseball. But here's what I see: Nothing gets done. Both parties blame each other. Presidents sign orders. Courts block them. Everyone shouts. Meanwhile, regular people are still struggling."
He looks around the panel. "Maybe executive orders become necessary when Congress stops functioning. Maybe the system's broken from top to bottom, and everyone's just trying to work around it. But working around something broken doesn't fix it. It just makes it more broken."
On Executive Orders and the Law
Buckley steers the conversation back. "Let's discuss the specific mechanism, gentlemen. Executive orders. The Founders never mentioned them in the Constitution. They emerged as administrative necessity."
He consults notes. "Franklin Roosevelt: 3,721 executive orders over twelve years—unconstitutional concentration camps included. Truman: 907 orders. Eisenhower: 484. The raw numbers decline over time, yet the impact of each order seems to grow. Why? Because they've shifted from administrative housekeeping to substantive policy."
Kissinger nods. "The nature has changed more than the quantity. An executive order that creates a new medal costs nothing and affects few. An order that redirects billions in appropriations or alters the legal status of millions—this is legislation without legislation."
George Carlin jumps in. "And nobody wants to treat the disease because everyone's making money off it! You're all sitting here pretending this is about principles—conservative versus liberal, order versus chaos, democracy versus tyranny. It's not. It's about whether you're getting your cut."
Closing Speeches: On American Anxiety and the Path Forward
Buckley straightens in his chair. "Gentlemen, we've diagnosed much and solved little. But let us attempt something constructive. Each of you will offer a closing statement: What is the root cause of our current American anxiety, and what path forward can you envision?"
Murrow: "The root cause is the death of shared truth. We must rebuild the institutions that verify truth. Democracy cannot function when citizens inhabit separate realities."
Baldwin: "The root cause is the same root cause it's always been in America: we have never, ever been honest about who we are. The path forward requires something white America has never been willing to do: tell the truth. Just stop lying."
Vidal: "The root cause is that we're a bankrupt empire pretending to be a functioning republic. The path forward? There isn't one. Empires don't reform—they fall."
Kissinger: "The root cause is the collapse of strategic thinking. The path forward requires a return to realism. Accurate assessment. Long-term planning."
Carlin: "The root cause? We're fucking stupid. The path forward? There isn't one collectively. But individually? Turn off your TV. Read a fucking book. Think for yourself. Build something small and real and true."
Miller: "The root cause is that we forgot we're a nation. The path forward is simple: reassert nationhood. Control our borders. Prioritize American workers. Put America first."
Bird: "The root cause is people stopped working together. The path forward? People need to start acting like teammates instead of opponents. Until we figure out what we're actually trying to accomplish together, we're going to keep losing."
Buckley turns to the mystery guest. "And you, sir? Would you care to offer your perspective?"
The figure remains motionless for a long moment. Then, slowly, deliberately, he crosses his arms tighter and shakes his head once. No.
Buckley clicks his tongue. Tsk. "A closing speech delivered through silence. How... unprecedented."
Epilogue
As the panel rises, the mystery guest stands abruptly and exits without acknowledging anyone. Miller follows quickly. Kissinger moves slowly toward the exit, Murrow beside him, still smoking. Baldwin and Vidal exchange barbs that might be insults or might be affection—with them, it's always both. Carlin is already planning his next routine. Bird just wants to get back to his hotel.
Buckley remains on stage, pen twirling, tongue clicking one final time. Tsk.
He looks at the empty chair where the mystery guest sat. "I built a conservatism of ideas," he says to no one in particular. "And it was inherited by someone who has only instincts. Perhaps that's how all intellectual movements end—consumed by their own popular success."
He exits stage left, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the empty hall.
The conversation is over. The anxiety remains.