Writing’s all I know. Frankly, I’ve never been able to do anything else.
– Christopher Buckley
My instincts are conservative, but my inclinations are also libertarian.
I think people assumed because of my last name that I was a real right-winger. And if you cared to look at my writing, you would be hard pressed to deduce that I’m an ideological right-winger.
My dad’s one true quest in life was for the Platonic ideal of peanut butter. And I remember one day he announced, with a look of utter transfiguration on his face, that he had found paradise on Earth in a jar with a yellow cap. And it was called Red Wing.
I hope when I’m on my deathbed, people forgive me, because there is a lot to forgive.
Fiction, for me, is sort of a protracted way of saying all the things I wished I said the night before.
Coming to terms with Donald Trump as the Republican nominee is like being told you have Stage 1 or Stage 2 cancer. You know you’ll probably survive, but one way or the other, there’s going to be a lot of throwing up.
In public relations, you live with the reality that not every disaster can be made to look like a misunderstood triumph.
I had worked for George Bush as a speechwriter, and I read a lot of White House memoirs. They all have two themes: ‘It Wasn’t My Fault’ and ‘It Would Have Been Much Worse if I Hadn’t Been There.’
If I were to win the Nobel Prize in Literature – which I think it’s fairly safe to say is not going to happen – I would still expect the headline on my obituary to read: ‘Christopher Buckley, son of William F. Buckley, Jr., is dead at 78.’
I don’t think I ever once heard Mum utter a religious or spiritual sentiment, a considerable feat considering that she was married for 57 years to one of the most prominent Catholics in the country.
I spent, whether consciously or unconsciously, most of my career trying to be something other than William F. Buckley’s son.
I think my identity as a ‘conservative’ is entirely inherited. People see the name Buckley, and they think ‘conservative.’
I think I got a lot of my ‘funny’ DNA from my mother, who had a glorious sense of the ridiculous.
I try to refrain from the alarmist statement, really I do. It’s bad for the liver and worries the dog, who has plenty enough to worry about as it is.
I am not a political thinker. I’m not even much of a thinker. I’m a hack novelist.
I can clear a dinner table in less than 60 seconds, moaning like a dockyard Elijah about the deficit and the inevitable reckoning.
I certainly wish I were as good-looking as Aaron Eckhart.
I can say this, now that my own beloved and irreplaceable parents are gone: George and Barbara Bush are parents anyone would kill to have.
A new idea is like carbonated liquid in a bottle. You just sort of shake it until the cork pops, then you write and write.
My mother spent a month in a Swiss hospital after a terrible ski accident.
I just write what comes along. I don’t have a detailed master plan.
You live vicariously through your characters.
We live – on a spinning planet in a world of spin.
You can’t tell what’s aboard a container ship. We carried every kind of cargo, all of it on view: a police car, penicillin, Johnnie Walker Red, toilets, handguns, lumber, Ping-Pong balls, and IBM data cards.
We make our public servants jump through quite a few hoops, you know. We get hysterical if they accept a $50 lunch from a lobbyist. We get hysterical if they accept a ride on some corporate jet.
I cast my first vote on my father’s lap in 1960, for Richard Nixon, in the voting booth. I was 8.
I have known John McCain personally since 1982. I wrote a well-received speech for him.
It’s always tricky, meeting an author you’ve admired.
The thought of Sarah Palin as president gives me acid reflux.