Frank Chodorov, RIP

There he stood, his tie askew, his balding head disheveled, the ashes from his beloved pipe flying all around, his intelligent and merry eyes twinkling as he scored some outrageous, logical, and beautifully penetrating point to some clod who couldn’t tell the difference between the host of cardboard “individualists” and this one genuine article. For Frank was sui generis, and the vast gulf in the quality of mind and the rigor of Ideas between him and the other “rightist” intellectuals was, in a sense, embodied in that other gulf of spirit and outward form.

Volume 3, Number 1; Winter 1967