The most serious vice of this book has one related virtue: it captures the fatal flaw of Stevens' jurisprudence.
The death of a great, great man: Judge Robert Bork. So many fond memories: arriving at AEI in 2000 and being consigned to the tenth floor “smokers row” next to the judge, with Walter Berns and Hillel Fradkin: amid the smoke, you couldn’t see your own face. But there’s the judge, scribbling thoughts on yellow legal pads. As my beloved wife said then: you don’t have a job. You’ve just gone to Heaven. Yup. Bob Bork made it so.
After a moot court when we really needed a drink (“Easy, judge. They are students. They’re supposed to be stupid.”) he orders a Martini and the waitress asks, “olives?” He looks at her sternly and barks, “If I want a salad, I’ll order one.” My kind of man.
My heart goes out to Mary Ellen, and Robert, and Ellen. Your loss is ours: we’ll all miss him, terribly. Mundus eum non cognovit.