The death of William F. Buckley Jr., occurring, as it has, at a time when the conservative movement is going through a tumult, is a moment to reflect on what one individual can accomplish with a pen. Buckley started to make his mark in letters while an undergraduate, producing the classic that we quote in the adjacent columns, “God and Man at Yale,” and writing himself into the American pantheon via what was, at least in its early years, a relatively small magazine, the National Review. He extended his reach with a television interview show, “Firing Line,” with a syndicated column carried by scores of newspapers, and by a shelf of books, the most recent, a gem of a volume of notes and asides from the National Review that was issued under the immortal title “Cancel Your Own Goddamned Subscription.”

Our own acquaintance with Buckley began relatively late in his storied career, when, as we were launching The New York Sun in 2002, he contacted us and suggested we get together. It turned out, we discovered over breakfast, that he was wondering whether we might be interested in carrying his column. He was eager to find a paper in the city that would run it every week. It’s hard to articulate what a boost it gave our spirits as we set out on this adventure to think that the modest and — not to put too fine a point on it — risky newspaper we were about to issue could be considered as a platform by one of the 20th century’s greatest journalists.

It turned out to reflect one of the things we came to like best about Buckley – his adventurous spirit. He comprehended the impact that could be had with a small publication that was prepared to take a minority position. He also had an honest reporter’s habit of developing a wide circle of friends that included many who didn’t agree with him. The first time we went to dinner at his and Pat’s apartment, which had his harpsichord in the entryway, we were ushered into the parlor by a butler to discover the great editor, slumped in a couch with none other than Governor Cuomo. Buckley’s wife, Pat, who has since died, ensured that a few cigarettes in an elegant holder, and some matches, were at each spot at the dinner table, a signal that their home would be, among other welcoming elements, open to the politically incorrect of all stripes, even if, in his last months, Buckley himself came to rue tobacco.

Buckley’s political stands were many and brave, but none more so than his determination to leach from the fields of the conservative movement the anti-Semitism that, in patches, had grown stagnant there. It is an achievement that has not yet been matched on the left. But on the right, Buckley’s entente with the Jewish intelligentsia set a great example, and in many ways was a welcoming signal for the entry of what we call the neo-conservatives. It is all the more admirable because the great editor did not always agree with the neo- wing of the conservative movement, most notably, in recent years, on the wisdom of the war in Iraq, though, in contradistinction to some leftist opponents of the war, Buckley never put the gloss on our enemies.

One of the things we admired about Buckley was what might be called a 19th century conception of journalism. He didn’t just engage with the issues in New York, to cite but one example; he ran for mayor, and with brio, a point for which he was remembered in a statement yesterday by Mayor Bloomberg. He practiced journalism at the grand level; once he held a small reception at the National Review office in Washington for William McGurn, the magazine’s new bureau man there. Mr. McGurn remembers standing with his back to the door, nursing a drink, when he felt a tap on the shoulder. It was Buckley. “Hey, young man,” Buckley said. “Turn around. There’s someone who wants to say hello.” When Mr. McGurn turned around he found himself facing the president of the United States at the time, George H.W. Bush.

The last meal we had with Buckley was at the New York Yacht Club. When we walked up a few paces from the dining room to the entry way, we suggested continuing up another set of steps to regard the model boats. Buckley confessed he felt too winded from his emphysema, and we suddenly glimpsed his mortality. In the late summer and early fall, he peppered us with calls and e-mail messages to make sure he didn’t miss the deadline for submitting to a federal judge in Chicago a letter in support of Conrad Black, who was coming up for sentencing. We suspect that Buckley was more solicitous of Lord Black when the press baron was in trouble than when he was at the top of his empire. It reminds that Buckley was, in all things, a leader and a mensch, something for conservatives — and liberals — to remember as they seek role models for the future.