The Fire Last Time

THE term “the Sixties” in the way it is now used wouldn’t have made much sense to me at Harvard in 1960-65. What impressed me then was the triumph of liberalism in the smooth, knowing, professional style of Americans for Democratic Action. Harvard and Yale men seemed to be all over the government, and everything seemed quite rational and measurable. “Managerial liberalism,” it later came to be called. Short haircuts were de rigueur, along with a certain athleticism and a brisk can-do attitude. That was the first half of the Sixties.

I didn’t meet the Sixties in something like the current sense until after my wife and I had driven across the country in a Plymouth Fury station wagon, given to us by her father as a wedding present. In its wisdom, Stanford had hired me as a new assistant professor. Left-leaning as I was, I learned with some bemusement that, the year before, a student poll had shown Goldwater carrying Stanford handsomely. When Berkeley erupted in “student rebellion,” everybody I knew thought, “There goes Berserkeley again.” I don’t recall anybody thinking this really meant a trend.

About the Author

Michael Novak

Michael Novak was a Catholic philosopher, journalist, novelist, and diplomat.

About the Author

Robert H. Bork

The late Mr. Bork was a distinguished fellow at the Hudson Institute.

About the Author

Richard Brookhiser

Historian Richard Brookhiser is a senior editor of National Review and a senior fellow at the National Review Institute.

Featured Tags

THE term “the Sixties” in the way it is now used wouldn’t have made much sense to me at Harvard in 1960-65. What impressed me then was the triumph of liberalism in the smooth, knowing, professional style of Americans for Democratic Action. Harvard and Yale men seemed to be all over the government, and everything seemed quite rational and measurable. “Managerial liberalism,” it later came to be called. Short haircuts were de rigueur, along with a certain athleticism and a brisk can-do attitude. That was the first half of the Sixties.

I didn’t meet the Sixties in something like the current sense until after my wife and I had driven across the country in a Plymouth Fury station wagon, given to us by her father as a wedding present. In its wisdom, Stanford had hired me as a new assistant professor. Left-leaning as I was, I learned with some bemusement that, the year before, a student poll had shown Goldwater carrying Stanford handsomely. When Berkeley erupted in “student rebellion,” everybody I knew thought, “There goes Berserkeley again.” I don’t recall anybody thinking this really meant a trend.