When Charles Krauthammer died in June of last year, a great many people who’d never met him felt that they’d lost . . . well, perhaps not quite a friend, since his public manner (I didn’t have the good fortune to know him) was precise and a bit formal. It might be closer to the mark to say that Krauthammer was more like a trusted counselor, the man to whom you went in the hope of making sense of an increasingly crazy world.
Missing Charles Krauthammer
A posthumous collection edited by his son Daniel clarifies the great columnist’s legacy to American, and to Jewish, discourse.