I’ve refrained from commenting on President Reagan’s ninety-first birthday, because many have commemorated it much more ably than I could hope to do. But Peggy Noonan’s piece in tomorrow’s (or today’s, given that most readers will see this in the morning after I’ve written it) Opinion Journal, prompts me to make a point that I suspect few others will.

Journalists feel an honest compassion for Mr. Reagan’s condition–everyone is saddened by the thought that this great man who was once so much a part of our lives no longer knows he was great, no longer remembers us. It’s big enough to be called tragic: this towering figure so reduced by illness. Part of it too is a growing appreciation of Nancy Reagan, who is doing now what she did for 50 years, protecting him, protecting his memory and his privacy. Only now she does it 24-7 at the age of 78, and without the help and comfort of the best friend of her life: him. She told me some months ago how to this day she’ll think of something and want to say, “Honey, remember the time