Dear Michael,
Ah, but you can be sly. Because I thought (think) it interesting to inquire into forms of address, you transform this into “the sort of thing the Buckleys discuss over breakfast,” which of course it is not. I am all the more gingered up over the subject precisely because I do not tend to bring it up–have I ever written about Mike/Michael Kinsley? Press something in Slate, and it will reveal that I have not. And how could the subject be tedious to a reader inasmuch as neither of us is ever tedious?
And then you write that it brings you displeasure to bring prospective pleasure to Bob Novak. Is that Crossfire talk, or is it more than that? If he were president (I am giving you a nice opening), and you were performing at a Gridiron Dinner, would you, whatever the fog emission, worship at his altar? Or are you immune? And then why do you go with the ignoratio elenchi by observing that “there is no way for strangers like the computer salesman to know your preference.” My entire point is that they shouldn’t need to calibrate a preference; they should go with conventional forms of address, of which the customary and polite thing is Mr. Kinsley, just as “Dear Mr. Kinsley” is not thought a pass but an entirely neutral salutation. Any letter that begins without that opening word is correctly thought at least provocative, probably bellicose.
Oh yes, the “Dear William Buckley.” It is even worse than “Dear William” and is not a new grotesque but a pretty old one, lanced by Nancy Mitford in that part of her book that escaped the devastation of Evelyn Waugh. Did I notice that you failed to declare yourself on your own convictions in the matter, or was it that your mind had gone back to nuclear proliferation?
Dear Michael, I do not mean to offend you, and if you command me, I will desert the subject of manners entirely, with only this little reminder that civility is the bony tissue of good life. And you know it intuitively, because you are capable of very nice spontaneous things, like sending me that new electronic mouse to Switzerland.
Ever,
Bill
