Overdrive (23 page)

A Harvard student sends me a copy of the first issue of a conservative highbrow paper the dissidents [Harvard-Radcliffe Conservative Club] are putting out, and I acknowledge it. "There's good writing in it, but it suffers desperately from typographical drabness. I would be glad to make you a gift of our [
National Review's]
art department to effect a more challenging design, if your people are interested. Let me hear."

Professor Marion Levy, chairman of the East Asian Studies Department at Princeton, writes me provocatively, asking why I even bothered to chide Fr. Timothy Healy (president of Georgetown University) for his rather unbalanced treatment of the Moral Majority. He wishes Fr. Healy had read "one of the great books of the twentieth century . . . Eric Hoffer's
The True Believer
. Had he done so, he would be well aware of the fact that the new righteousness [that Healy deplores] is quite consistent with a very strong strain of what he refers to as 'western religion' which I would prefer to call Judeo-Christian religions since I think both the singular number and the geographical adjective are misleading in these respects. Indeed the new righteousness has a broad level of consistency with a major element in many if not all religions, despite the fact that many of us would prefer to emphasize quite different aspects of religious belief. It always surprises me that it should be regarded as cynical to point out that we use the term 'bestial' to describe a type of conduct that is characteristic of no beast save
Homo sapiens
. One doesn't have to be Hobbesian to be aware of that aspect of history.

"But then (dare I start a whole paragraph with such a phrase in writing to thee?), I think most people are wrong in their apprehension of what our problems are. I think the main problem we face is coping with very high levels of interdependency. People in general have never been very much interested in freedom and have accepted very high levels of authoritarianism and hierarchy quite easily if it was visited in sufficiently local forms. People have not in general felt that he or she governs best who governs least but only that he or she governs best who governs most locally. I do not think Hobbes was right in holding over us the threat that life would become solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short. For us it is far more likely to become crowded, affluent, nasty, brutish, and long. Can people adjust as well to longevity, affluence, and peace as they have in the past to shortgevity, poverty, and war? In these respects the Japanese may give us a better basis for hope than most other people in the world."

Professor Levy enclosed an extraordinary correspondence with a fellow professor at Princeton (whom he had never met) in which the other professor quite huffily rejected a manuscript by Levy alleging it to be insubstantial in quality and vituperative in tone. Seasoned editors reading it would mostly, I think, agree that the professor-editor simply didn't enjoy being chewed up by Levy, never mind that his journal is called
democracy
— "democracy" (small "d") as in "Amerika." I keep running into a good deal of glumness on the question whether self-government is here to stay. I reply briefly to Professor Levy, though other than to wonder at the bad manners of the professor-editor, I don't get into the substance of their quarrel.

Ira Cohen, co-executor with me of Harry Elmlark's will, sends me the
Publishers Weekly
review of
Marco Polo
, tells me he has damaged his ankle, and that his wife, who went to Vassar with mine, liked my sailing piece in
The New Yorker
. I promise to send the book when it materializes, and tell him I have now the picture of Harry's ashes being scattered in the Sound.

A gentleman from Massachusetts tells me he has come upon a copy of the
National Review Reader
, 1957, a volume of material published in
National Review
during its first year of life, and is willing to sell it to me. "On the inside page is the following in original handwriting: Ex Libris Mrs. Albert J. Beveridge, Gratefully: Wm. F. Buckley Jr., Suzanne La Follette, Frank S. Meyer, L. Brent Bozell, James Burnham, John Chamberlain, Willmoore Kendall, Whittaker Chambers." My goodness, what I made my poor colleagues do. That was the first year we sent out a general appeal to our readers for funds, and everyone who came in with one hundred dollars or more got what that year I called "an exiguous token of our esteem," a phrase that has stuck, as in, "what's the exiguous token this year going to be?" I had forgotten I asked everyone to sign all those books individually. I tell Mr. Wilkinson thanks, but the volume is not worth a lot of money.

I have been trying for about ten years to arrange a day when I could accompany Bill Rickenbacker, my old friend and sometime colleague, to Pittsburgh. He goes thither when the great resident organist, Paul Koch, performs on the famous Beckerath organ at St. Paul's Cathedral. Last week I asked Frances whether I was free on April 27th? "Dear Bill: I could weep. I was moving in on April 27th only to find out that I am (once again) m.c. at the American Book Awards. Is there a date in May?" Bill (son of Eddie) is one of those terribly rare people simply drenched in talent, which he has not—is "merchandised" the right word? Linguist, writer, economic analyst, humorist, pianist, pilot. He is living now in Massachusetts, on a farm, writing pastoral monthly letters, analyzing stock trends, practicing the piano, teaching Latin to a neighbor's son. What does it matter, to merchandise one's gifts? Is a better word for it "advertise"? Surely if you spend three hours a day practicing the piano, you will want to play for somebody? Or if you paint all day long, show—even sell—your pictures? And if you write, don't you wish that others should read what you write, and shouldn't you therefore seek publication?

Is it a matter of style? Self-pleasure is heady stuff, but isn't it (the commercial aspect of it all to one side, the need to provide for oneself and one's family)—antisocial, in the grave sense of desiring not to share? What are a man's obligations, if any, to the New York Graphic Society's representative who approaches him for permission to reproduce, and offer prints of, a painting by Leonardo da Vinci which he owns and which is heretofore unphotographed? Is it all a matter of style, or in part a matter of style? Some pleasures cannot be shared, but must one seek to share those that can, which includes insights into right reason?

A young (eighteen) lady I have never met has come to New York to attend a modeling school, and never since Helen left Sparta was there such maternal grief, notwithstanding that her mother approved her daughter's mission in principle. The mother has corresponded with me for years, is wonderfully witty, emotional, literate, and writes to beg me
not
to see or communicate with her daughter for a couple of months lest this stimulate homesickness; though it is never made clear just how I could stimulate homesickness by visiting with somebody who doesn't know me. Anyway, I write her now—"Is it safe to make a lunch date in March after our return [from Switzerland]?"

To Keith Mano, whose book
Take Five
I have just completed reading in galleys, I write:

Dear Keith: Well, I've read the book. The copy I took with me on the trip was inadvertently left in San Francisco, so I had to wait until Sam sent me a replacement. I don't doubt that it is a work of genius. The reader (this reader) is struck more by the phrase-by-phrase energy, ingenuity, insane exuberance, than by the narrative dynamic. That may hurt, I don't know. It may be deemed just too powerful. One can only hope, at this level—I have no faith in my powers to predict commercial success. Certainly it will, once and for all, distinguish you as a total master of the language. That I should figure in this book
[Take Five
is dedicated to me], so prominently, and so affectionately, is quite the nearest I'll ever get to achieving temporal immortality. There is no way to thank you for this, except to insist that you should know the measure of my gratitude, and to accomplish that will require a lifetime. Affectionately, Bill.

An editor for E. P. Dutton sent me the galleys of Wilfrid Sheed's brief book on Clare Boothe Luce, asking for a jacket blurb, which I send him:

Dear Mr. Corn: I have read the book you sent me by Wilfrid Sheed, on Clare Luce. It is a work of art, the more impressive for the remarkable job it undertakes, namely to draw a full portrait of one of the truly remarkable women of the century, such that neither admirers nor critics will feel scorned. I would not have thought it possible, but then this tends to happen every time I pick up a work by Sheed. Sheed on Clare Luce is a juxtaposition insanely felicitous, and I congratulate you for whatever role you played in bringing this about. Yours faithfully.

Three weeks later I saw Bill Sheed during the
Brideshead
screening, and it transpires that Mr. Corn is no longer with Dutton. He neither acknowledged my blurb nor passed it along to his successor; perhaps a clerical oversight. The book is everything I said about it.

To my son Christopher I write:

Dear Christo: Ken Galbraith called, about this & that. Has just returned from an extensive trip to Japan, which is why he hasn't read your book
[Steaming to Bamboola\
which, however, he is taking with him to Chicago this weekend and will have read not long after you get this note. He called to my attention something he thought faintly alarming, a sentence in the publisher's covering letter that came in with the manuscript. The phrase in question (which he quoted from memory) apparently says of you that "he wrote much of the best seller,
Airborne.''''
He feels that the publicist is here implying that you wrote other than the sections attributed to you; i.e., that you ghost-wrote much of
Airborne
. Perhaps it would be wise if you called the relevant creature at Tom Congdon's and had him/her read you the phrase in question to see if Ken is correct, in which case you can use your own judgment as to whether any correcting statement should be sent out to those who have received your book, or whether it suffices merely to alter the line in future uses of the point. All love.

Later I saw the blurb, and Ken had made more of it than it spoke. Christopher goes to such extraordinary lengths to play down any ties with me that would conceivably be thought to be parasitic that he came as close as he ever does to being miffed by this, but quickly the misunderstanding was straightened out.

The sequel to all this was amusing, because almost two months later Ken Galbraith still hadn't read Christopher's book, which is most awfully unlike him. Christopher had no intention of pursuing him, but I thought to goad him with a telegram, which I did five days before our scheduled television debate at Harvard on Reagan's economic initiatives, "DEAR KEN: TELL YOU WHAT, IF YOU'LL READ CHRISTOPHER'S BOOK, I'LL TAKE A DIVE ON THURSDAY, BILL." The communication was transcribed with some difficulty by Kitty (Mrs. G.) because she didn't know the expression "to take a dive." I was not surprised that within twenty-four hours Ken had read the book and called me to dictate a plug for it. I was agreeably astonished, sitting in Ken's living room with a half dozen of his friends, after a most spirited debate, to hear Ken bring up the subject of Christopher's book and regale the company with praise for it, followed by the statement that he considered Christopher one of the "top half-dozen writers of his generation." Ken can be very generous. To be sure, this usually happens with other people's money. But he is personally as generous a man as I have known.

Pat has rung the intercom. David is up, and they are watching the evening television news. Do I want to join them? Yes.

There were just the three of us at dinner, and David spoke of the demonstrations going on in western Europe, and of his conviction that it was wrong to read anti-Americanism into them, and I more or less agreed. After dinner I showed him a most wonderful documentary film. The principal figure in it is Philip Weld, for whom I have developed a considerable attachment notwithstanding that I have seen him only twice. I met him years ago through Herbert Kenny, the poet, critic, longtime book review editor for the Boston
Globe
(he is now retired), and one of my oldest friends. Weld was then active as the publisher of several newspapers, including the Gloucester (Mass.) daily, and his avocation was sailing on multi-hulled vessels, i.e., catamarans and trimarans.

Last spring Herb acted as intermediary in two situations, which came together quite coincidentally. I had heard from a friend in Boston that the
Globe
was publishing my newspaper column very irregularly, and I feared that this must be because of a hostility to me by its new editorial page editor, Martin Nolan. I have never met Mr. Nolan, but I remembered reading a reference to me by Nolan a year or so before, so I fished it up, called Herb, and told him I proposed to write to Tom Winship (the editor and Herb's former boss); which I did, sending along a copy to Herb.

Dear Tom: A friend who lives in Greater Boston and is therefore one of your subjects wrote me a letter rather more detailed than the usual letter on the same theme, complaining of the virtual disappearance of my column in the
Globe
. But this correspondent was more concrete than others I have once or twice called to your attention. He said that Mr. Martin Nolan feels a considerable hostility to me. You can of course surmise that I thought this inconceivable, and so wrote to ask my correspondent where he got such an idea, and to my surprise he wrote back immediately giving his evidence. He pointed to an article published in
The Washingtonian
in December of 1977, an article which I had seen, but forgotten. It was a profile of George Will, involving interviews with several of his professional colleagues. The relevant passage is: "I think he [Will] is . . .a real conservative, a first-rate thinker, the best thing to happen to commentary here in a long time. You don't get too many Ph.D.'s humping around in daily journalism, you know. He's not a cheap-jack careerist like Buckley, who spent so much time trying to justify the Nixon administration." When I saw this back in 1977 I hardly questioned Mr. Nolan's evaluation of George Will—after all, I had appointed him Washington editor for
National Review
some time before Air. Nolan ferreted out his talents. I was, however, surprised to be labeled a cheap-jack careerist at the service of Richard Nixon. In August 1971 I convened an influential group in New York City which issued a statement publicly suspending our support of Nixon (front page, New York
Times)
. In December 1971 I announced my support of the maverick candidacy of John Ashbrook against Richard Nixon. In February 1972 I alone (I think) of the seventy reporters following Nixon in China categorically criticized Nixon's behavior, and the Shanghai Communique. In March of 1972 I declined in a personal letter to Nixon reappointment as a member of the U.S. Advisory Commission on Information. In December of 1973 I called for the resignation of Nixon. In January 1974 I recommended to my brother in the Senate that he do the same, which he did in March. To suggest that I was a Nixon careerist under the circumstances would seem to reveal more about Mr. Nolan's familiarity with the writers he speaks about, than about my record with respect to Nixon.