THE RIGHT BOOKS

IT is discouraging that a man who has spent over thirty years as a member of what is—or used to be— thought of as the temple of American rhetoric apparently felt himself inadequate to the task of writing his memoirs without the aid of a tape recorder and an acknowledged ghost-writer. Still, Goldwater (Doubleday, $21.95), by Barry M. Goldwater with Jack Casserly, is an amusing as well as an interesting book, engagingly unselfconscious at a personal level. (Ignore the anachronism long enough to imagine John C. Calhoun rigging his toilet seat with a voice-recording that plays, “Hi, honey, how ya doin’? Can I be of any help?” when a young lady seats herself—and writing about it.) At the public level, it is considerably less self-conscious; we are aware of the author’s overriding desire to convince us that he is not only a serious political figure but a flesh-and-blood human being, and a genuinely good man. His need after all these years is pathetic, but his argument—despite the strain he puts on it—is convincing. Barry Goldwater, as David Broder has finally conceded, is indeed “a monumental figure in American politics—beyond philosophy and ideology. He is an authentic American.” He is also an essentially simple man, whose intuitive conservatism—conservative “ideas” being for Goldwater “as much a part of life as walking down the street or watering your horse”—made him “right from the start.” From his first hours in the U.S. Senate in 1953, his aim was always “to reduce the size of government. Not to pass laws but to repeal them. Not to institute new programs but to eliminate old ones.”

“Right from the start” had its disadvantage, of course. Goldwater, to this day, sees himself as conservatism’s fall guy, the fellow who is inevitably floored only to bounce back onto his feet—and get floored again. Before the assassination he had been keen to run against John Kennedy on the Republican ticket in 1964: the campaign, he believed, would be a true test of opposed philosophies. But, with Johnson in the White House, Goldwater lost all interest in a quest for the Presidency. “The overwhelming reason for the decision [not to run],” he explains, “was my personal and political contempt for Lyndon Johnson. … If conservatives were to plead their case before the American people, the air had to be clear and clean. There had to be a line of battle where principles and beliefs clashed openly for the public to see. Johnson was the epitome of the unprincipled politician. He would assume the Kennedy legacy and be consumed by the sorrow of Jack’s martyrdom. I couldn’t and wouldn’t run against a man like that.” When, under the pressure of subsequent events, Goldwater finally agreed to run, it was, he claims, in full expectation that “we’d lose the election but win the party.” Today he writes, “If I could accomplish three things with the rest of my life, repealing the War Powers Resolution would be one of them. It would be on a par with balancing the national budget. If allowed a third wish, I would abolish the U.S. Department of Education.” At 79, Barry Goldwater remains the American avatar of the positive power of negativism.

Featured Tags

IT is discouraging that a man who has spent over thirty years as a member of what is—or used to be— thought of as the temple of American rhetoric apparently felt himself inadequate to the task of writing his memoirs without the aid of a tape recorder and an acknowledged ghost-writer. Still, Goldwater (Doubleday, $21.95), by Barry M. Goldwater with Jack Casserly, is an amusing as well as an interesting book, engagingly unselfconscious at a personal level. (Ignore the anachronism long enough to imagine John C. Calhoun rigging his toilet seat with a voice-recording that plays, “Hi, honey, how ya doin’? Can I be of any help?” when a young lady seats herself—and writing about it.) At the public level, it is considerably less self-conscious; we are aware of the author’s overriding desire to convince us that he is not only a serious political figure but a flesh-and-blood human being, and a genuinely good man. His need after all these years is pathetic, but his argument—despite the strain he puts on it—is convincing. Barry Goldwater, as David Broder has finally conceded, is indeed “a monumental figure in American politics—beyond philosophy and ideology. He is an authentic American.” He is also an essentially simple man, whose intuitive conservatism—conservative “ideas” being for Goldwater “as much a part of life as walking down the street or watering your horse”—made him “right from the start.” From his first hours in the U.S. Senate in 1953, his aim was always “to reduce the size of government. Not to pass laws but to repeal them. Not to institute new programs but to eliminate old ones.”

“Right from the start” had its disadvantage, of course. Goldwater, to this day, sees himself as conservatism’s fall guy, the fellow who is inevitably floored only to bounce back onto his feet—and get floored again. Before the assassination he had been keen to run against John Kennedy on the Republican ticket in 1964: the campaign, he believed, would be a true test of opposed philosophies. But, with Johnson in the White House, Goldwater lost all interest in a quest for the Presidency. “The overwhelming reason for the decision [not to run],” he explains, “was my personal and political contempt for Lyndon Johnson. … If conservatives were to plead their case before the American people, the air had to be clear and clean. There had to be a line of battle where principles and beliefs clashed openly for the public to see. Johnson was the epitome of the unprincipled politician. He would assume the Kennedy legacy and be consumed by the sorrow of Jack’s martyrdom. I couldn’t and wouldn’t run against a man like that.” When, under the pressure of subsequent events, Goldwater finally agreed to run, it was, he claims, in full expectation that “we’d lose the election but win the party.” Today he writes, “If I could accomplish three things with the rest of my life, repealing the War Powers Resolution would be one of them. It would be on a par with balancing the national budget. If allowed a third wish, I would abolish the U.S. Department of Education.” At 79, Barry Goldwater remains the American avatar of the positive power of negativism.