I met Joe Sobran in 1973 when I was working as history editor at St. Martin’s Press and had begun writing for National Review.  I don’t remember how exactly, but the occasion must have been one of the open-house cocktail parties at the magazine’s offices at 150 East 35th Street, held every other Wednesday evening...

Paul Theroux laments that the world is aging badly, that the world he knew as a young man has nearly vanished, that the decline and decay of precious things is everywhere apparent.  Theroux should know; he travels more than I do.  Also my own ventures at home and abroad depressingly confirm his impressions.  Except when...