“You’re betraying your whole life if you don’t say what you think—and you don’t say it honestly and bluntly.”
Charles Krauthammer said this in 2013, during the taping of an interview with Fox News anchor Bret Baier for an hour-long special on Charles’s life. The special focused on Things That Matter, a collection of his writings that would sell more than a million copies.
Those words didn’t air when the special ran, but the clip was included as part of a moving television tribute to Charles following his passing on June 21.
It’s easy to understand why it got cut. In 2013, such an observation seemed obvious, maybe even banal. Of course people who do what Charles do say what they think: That’s the point of a career in opinion journalism.
But in the years since, we’ve watched evangelicals shrug off infidelity, free traders start arguing for tariffs, longtime hawks celebrate meaningless diplomacy, and virtuecrats downplay pedophilia. In private, elected officials and pundits complain about having to defend the indefensible and promote candidates anathema to their principles. In public, they cast aside any opinions and arguments that cut against the prevailing mood or contradict the favored views of the new populists. Our public sphere is filled with people who not only avoid saying what they think but readily say things that they don’t believe in the slightest.
It turns out Charles wasn’t stating the obvious in 2013. As he did so often over his long career, he was seeing things before the rest of us. He was making an observation simple, profound, and prescient.
Charles did this better than anyone. His columns took the confusion of everyday events and brought clarity. They reframed familiar arguments in important ways. They introduced ideas that broadened the knowledge and understanding of everyone who read them. The force of his logic was extraordinary. Even when I started to read a column disagreeing with his premise, I’d almost always find myself nodding along by the time I reached the end.
The same thing was true of his television commentary. He made his case in words that tumbled neatly out of his mouth and turned out to be ordered paragraphs when they were transcribed. It was one of many ways in which he defied the trends of cable television. He spoke softly where others now shout. He listened carefully and thoughtfully to his colleagues rather than talking over them. He made sophisticated and complicated arguments in a medium dominated by sound bites and snark.
Charles was also hilarious. On a Special Report in late December one year, substitute anchor Jim Angle asked the panelists for their resolutions. “Last year on this night, I pledged to be kinder and gentler,” Charles announced, and then deadpanned, “It looks like I’ll have to give that one another shot.”
Angle laughed along with the rest of us, and then said “That’s it?,” expecting Charles to go on.
Charles never went short. He routinely and unapologetically took more time than the other panelists. It was the kind of thing that would have caused tension on any other news show. But the panelists of Special Report didn’t mind. It was Charles. Whatever he said in those few extra seconds was far more likely to matter than whatever reporting or commentary we had to offer. So Charles’s brevity that night caught everyone by surprise.
Prompted by Angle’s query, Charles added, with a great twinkle, “and to be concise, which I have apparently done,” handcuffing the anchor a second time.
One autumn, Charles and I were both booked to speak at a financial conference in New Orleans. I was tasked with giving the group an update on the political landscape in Washington. Charles was to appear on a panel with James Carville and P. J. O’Rourke. The night before our appearances, we gathered at Drago’s, the legendary oyster house, to watch game seven of the World Series. It was a night my twentysomething self would have never believed possible—casually hanging out with P. J. O’Rourke and Charles Krauthammer. I drank beer, P. J. downed a couple of cocktails, and Charles had two or three of his favorite drinks—tomato juice and Worcestershire sauce. (“I can’t drink,” he said. “I’m always driving.”)
If P. J. and I were a little sluggish the next morning, Charles was not. After Carville was introduced, he thanked the organizers for including a liberal in a group of conservative speakers: “First of all, I appreciate my role here—as the fire hydrant at the dog show,” he said, in his distinctive Southern drawl. Without hesitation, Charles interjected: “Allow me to lift my leg.” The friendly crowd roared in approval.
When I joined Fox News, I was intimidated by Charles and afraid to engage with him. I’d pass by the back office that Charles used as his pre-panel hangout, wanting badly to interrupt him as he prepared for the show, or, often, just took a short nap. But I was worried I’d be disrupting his routine and that he’d react badly to my invading his space.
I was wrong, of course. When I finally summoned the courage to engage him there, he welcomed me in and we talked until we had to go on. We did this before most shows thereafter—discussing the issues of the day, sports, family, this magazine.
Without realizing it, I came to rely on Charles. He served as a sounding board, an intellectual signpost, a tutor, a career counselor, a doctor, a friend. It might sound silly, but when he told me he was impressed with my children, I felt it as validation. When he told me he thought I could jump from writing for this magazine to running it, he gave me confidence I needed. And, of course, he provided a constant example: “You’re betraying your whole life if you don’t say what you think—and you don’t say it honestly and bluntly.”
