Editor’s Note: Robert L. Bartley, the distinguished former editor of the Wall Street Journal, died today at 66. Here are two articles about him published previously in The Weekly Standard.
-JVL
Robert Bartley has edited the Wall Street Journal editorial page for 25 years, and I bet that in all that time he has never held a single traditional editorial meeting. Instead, at various points during the day the editorial writers will hear Bartley’s gleeful cackle coming from the office of deputy editor Dan Henninger, and one by one they will amble over and sit down.
Henninger’s area is a big open space with soft low chairs that make it impossible to sit with dignity. Dorothy Rabinowitz sinks into one in a fierce, sardonic slouch. George Melloan, the veteran Global View columnist, achieves a position almost perfectly horizontal, his feet outstretched, his head tilting back. John Fund is only partially visible under the overflow of faxes that have come to him from the far corners of the conservative empire. Bartley’s favorite spot is an upright chair in the middle, his body twisted around and his hair tousled.
These and another half-dozen or so writers and editors will be sitting there, talking about this or that, and suddenly the dreaded event will occur. There will be a lull in the conversation, a silence. A silence that lasts and lasts. A silence that is perfectly fine with Bartley, who grew up in the slow rhythms of the rural Midwest. He’s a quiet man, after all.
But for a New Yorker like me, trained to fill every silence with jabber, the quiet stretches were nerve-wracking social catastrophes. During the nearly nine years I worked on Bartley’s staff, I used to stare furiously at my shoes during the interludes, repeating this mantra to myself: “I will not break this silence. I will not break this silence. . . .” Sometimes a silence can last so long that it becomes impregnable.
Last week, the Journal held a dinner party celebrating Bartley’s quarter-century as editorial-page editor. Seth Lipsky, now the publisher of the Forward, held up a worn sheet of paper–the one piece of feedback he’d received during his 12 years under Bartley. It was a xerox of a short editorial Seth had written, and on it, Bartley had scrawled, with characteristic loquacity, “Good.” Paul Gigot mentioned Bob’s job-interviewing style, which is unique in that he often doesn’t ask any questions.
During the many speeches that evening, people tried to figure out how someone so reticent could have had such vast influence on the people around him and been so revered by his staff. He rarely gives orders to his subordinates, or even guidance, but the page nonetheless reflects his personality. Henninger put his finger on the nub of it: In dealing with Bartley, you don’t listen, you play Luke Skywalker. You feel The Force.
It’s true. You may be away in a satellite office in Brussels or Hong Kong, working on the paper’s European or Asian edition, and therefore may not have spoken to Bartley in six months, but still you feel the consistency of his views and the rhythms of his unmatched news judgment.
The one time you do hear from Bartley is when you are in trouble, when some target of yours has threatened to sue, or when some government official or government–Singapore, China, Belgium–has gone ballistic over something you wrote. Then, Bartley comes to your support with one goal: to get you in even deeper. When someone attacks an editorial you wrote, Bartley will insist on hitting back twice as hard. If someone issues blustery libel threats, you can be sure that Bartley will make them even angrier before he’s finished with them.
Indeed, the Bartley mystery no one will ever explain is how someone could spend a lifetime within the Establishment and yet remain so daring in taking it on. More than any other journalist, Bartley takes risks, staking out audacious positions, and launching wildly unconventional attacks. Yet he doesn’t slip into complete wackismo.
The dinner exemplified Bartley’s position halfway in and halfway out of the Establishment. Many of those in attendance were respectable luminaries: Henry Kissinger, Paul Volcker, Donald Rumsfeld. Yet there were folks from Bartley’s bombthrower side, as became clear when Jude Wanniski rose up to read from his Internet postings. (It’s easy to forget how weird supply-side ideas seemed when Bartley hopped on board in the 1970s.)
But if Hollywood were to base a sitcom on the Journal editorial page, Bartley would not be the main character. It would be Dan Henninger, the beloved calm center in the midst of a swirl of eccentrics. Henninger is the underappreciated secret of Bartley’s success. He now does more of the actual writing, and regularly edits the page. He’s the one who shepherds the staff through the day, endures the long gatherings around his desk, and connects the idiosyncratic concerns of the page to the concerns of ordinary Journal readers.
And watching these two, it’s clear that Bartley appreciates Henninger’s contribution. When it comes time for Dan to get his 25-year dinner, Robert Bartley will rise to the podium, adjust his glasses, and sum it all up thusly:
”
!”
–David Brooks
