William F. Buckley, Jr.'s latest book, Miles Gone By, is marketed as an autobiography, which is misleading. It would have been better labeled a Bill Buckley "reader," though Buckley, in his preface, suggests that the nature of most of the fifty essays included aims at achieving the effect of a personal memoir or autobiography.

It is a wonderful read, like most of Buckley's collections and memoirs. There hangs about Buckley an elegant graciousness that is difficult to resist. It is not simply that in his best work he uses language with beautiful precision, it is also that he is an uncommonly nice man. He is the sort of person one would want to spend time with, which no doubt explains, in part, his loyal following of viewers, readers and colleagues. Even ideological adversaries find themselves celebrating Buckley's bright light -- from Norman Mailer to John Kenneth Galbraith.

In Miles Gone By, Buckley recounts the publication of God and Man at Yale, recalls his friendship with Whittaker Chambers and celebrates his many adventures, whether sailing the oceans with his son and close friends, skiing in the Alps, or descending more than two miles into the ocean to view the Titanic.

He also includes glosses on such folks as William Shawn, legendary New Yorker editor, James Burnham, a founding editor at National Review, several close friends -- including David Niven and Galbraith, and an excerpt from his book on running for Mayor of New York City, The Unmaking of a Mayor. There are tributes to his parents, his son, and other close friends. There is a final reflection at the end that is quite moving, as Buckley imagines himself, one last time, on the high seas. It is good stuff.

Here is the problem. If you are devoted Buckley reader, Miles Gone By consists mostly of familiar material. You find yourself revisiting the same old haunts. Not that you mind, but you don't experience quite the same enchantment or excitement either.

In addition, even as a collection of recycled material, the book has some bothersome aspects. Several tributes that are included seem less than substantive. Meanwhile, Malcolm Muggeridge, one of his most frequent and arguably most popular guests on Firing Line, gets a mere sentence. Mortimer Adler, another Firing Line regular and arguably the greatest pedagogue of our age, goes unnoted. Such choices can be justified as matters of personal preference, of course, but it does reduce the weight of such an important literary event. Many of us want Buckley's matured take on the major personalities he has encountered through the years, but a great many are missing here.

Buckley argues in the preface that a fresh autobiography would have been a pointless exercise in paraphrasing. This is a difficult argument to counter because it is such a personal judgment. No doubt, Buckley would have been required to bring fresh energy and renewed perspectives to an authentic autobiography. He clearly did not have the desire to do so. End of story.

Even so, speaking for myself, I would have dearly looked forward to Buckley's sustained reflections on McCarthy, Vietnam, environmentalism, Garry Wills, religion in a secular age, and the demise of Communism. How would he evaluate the race issue today, in light of his positions in the 1960s and his consequent admission that conservatives might have gotten the civil rights movement wrong? And whither conservatism today and the country he has cherished and loved -- has he no desire to speculate about America's future or the guiding hand conservatives might lend in ensuring his beloved nation's viability?

Here is a fascinating but also frustrating paradox concerning Buckley. He has always been the most public and yet most private of men. He has been on stage for fifty years, but you always sensed there was a part of him missing. It might well be that this "missing self" had taken off for another cross ocean journey or sat before a fireplace in Switzerland in the company of great friends. His personal affections often seemed aloof from his public vocations. And yet the question is begged -- why not weave together in a final and fresh book the fascinating array of people, issues and events with whom and in which Buckley participated for half a century?

One can only speculate. Perhaps weariness has set in? (Recall Chambers' poignant letter quoted at the end of Overdrive.) Has a life of constant activity left Buckley spent? Or could it be that his admitted incapacity for introspection closed the door on such a project. After all, an autobiography -- to be revealing -- would require disturbing ground long since left in peace. Buckley's renowned gift for friendship would make such an effort all the more difficult -- more losses to remember and regret. And then this mournful thought -- how astonishingly quickly his full life raced by at Cruising Speed.

This is a lament perhaps only a Buckley junkie might appreciate. Others less familiar with his life and work will enjoy this collection. But I cannot help lamenting that if Arthur Schlesinger Jr. can crank out 500 pages on just the first 33 years of his life, what kind of autobiography might Buckley have written, with his special talent for blending ideas, people and personal remembrance into compelling memoir.

Readers got a glimpse at this talent in his week-long journals of years past, but they always begged for elaboration. All the more reason why thousands of his faithful readers will be disappointed to find that Buckley has declined to take them on one last riveting intellectual journey.

George Shadroui has been published in more than two dozen newspapers and magazines, including National Review and Frontpagemag.com.

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