sketched in powerfully simple lines. If not psychologicallyncomplex, they are sympathetic and often admirable.nThrough the shadow world of clandestine operations, theynmove confidently—Vietnam veterans, assassins, combatnprofessionals. Above all, they are patriots, although they donnot often speak of that. They are moral figures in annimmoral world whose solid sense of obligation to theirncountry sustains them as they struggle to uphold standardsnof decency and honor. Their fervor is disturbed by nonconcern that the means, often bloody and illegal, mayncontaminate their desired ends.nThese characters practice violence because direct actionnseems the only solution for present ills. As the novelsnearnestly reiterate, contemporary society is unstable andncorrupt. Freedom and democratic processes have beenncompromised away by lawyers, politicians, inept nationalnleaders, and special-interest groups. The organizations setnup to administer justice and protect the citizen no longernfunction. National collapse can be staved off only byndedicated men willing to fight for their beliefs, no matternwhat the personal cost.nFor these reasons, principal characters of this genre tendnto address similar problems in a similar way. They strikendirectiy at a situation, whether crime in the street orncorruption in high office. They bring blood justice for thenpublic good. Their victims are unlamented. Mark Hardin,nThe Penetrator (fifty books by Lionel Derrick), is partnCheyenne and a Vietnam veteran who has made it hisnmission to eradicate evil. Lone Wolf, Jack Sullivan, ThenSpecialist (ten or more novels by John Cutter), uses hisnfinely honed combat skills to fight terrorists, criminalnmasterminds, and the Mafia. The Death Merchant, bynJoseph Rosenberger, features Richard Camillion, a murderernfor hire. Between murders, he immerses himself innclassical music and difficult books, one of the few seriesncharacters to react to anything more cultural than ballisticsntables.nIn part, these deadly heroes sprang from the staggeringnsuccess during the early 1960’s of Ian Fleming’s JamesnBond novels. These sparked a fad for suave secret agents,nwho enjoyed ostentatious living, lovely ladies, and extraordinarynadventures. The action was seasoned by gadgets andnbizarre opponents, that now familiar mixture. Of all Bond’snrivals, the most successful has been Nick Carter of ThenKillmaster series. Numbering nearly two hundred and fiftynvolumes, these describe the violent adventures of N3, annAmerican espionage agent who chops down fanatics withnfacile zeal in the interests of world peace. A far colder worldnis presented in Donald Hamilton’s series about secret agentnMatt Helm. Like Bond, Helm is employed by a clandestinengovernment organization created to handle severe threats tonnational security. Helm is empowered to assassinate whennnecessary. He does so frequently, with dour professionalism.nThe novels, spare and hardboiled, are touched by a kind ofnresigned disillusionment.nThe device of a secret agency protecting America’snsecurity through judicious assassination swiftly embeddednitself as a fictional convention. Of the many novels builtnaround the secret agency and its lethal personnel, ThenDestroyer series has been one of the most successful.nCertainly it is one of the oddest. Begun in 1963 (butnremaining unpublished until 1971), the series was thencreation of Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir. Quirky,nopinionated, an astonishing mixture of comedy, social satire,nfantasy, and explicit violence, the series is blithely disrespectfulnof authority in all forms and causes of all types. Thenseries’ lead characters, Remo Williams and Chiun, master ofnthe art of sinanju, are professional assassins. With sleeknefficiency, they put to death astonishing numbers of simplisticnfigures who personify contemporary problems, againnillustrating the lure of the direct solution.nIf these contemporary adventure stories reflect anything,nthey reflect the society in which they were created and innwhich they are consumed. Perhaps they simplify and distortnor overdramatize, but invariably the fiction conveys anmessage from the deep. It speaks of anger and dismay,nimpatience at the confusion of things, and the desire fornimmediate solutions to the problems of the turbulentnpresent. It speaks of success and bravery, hails the wondersnof technology, and honors skill and intelligence and mennwho live for principle. For all its easy violence, adventurenfiction honors life. nLIBERAL ARTSnLITERATURE ANDnUTOPIASnPerhaps the change I describe, from thenrevolt of the nineteenth century to thenrealism of the twentieth, could not benbetter measured than by the distancenbetween two dates; the day on whichnMr. H.G. Wells, laying the foundationsnof the first of his Utopias, declared thatnits first principle should be that OriginalnSin is a lie—to the day when Mr.nAldous Huxley, heir of the great scientificnhouse in its next generation, wrotenthat the mediaeval mind was far wisernthan the nineteenth-century minds, becausenit recognised Original Sin.n—from Sidelights on New Londonnand Newer New York,nby G.K. Chesterton.nLITERATURE ANDnFANTASYnnnThe problem of the fairy tale is—whatnwill a healthy man do with a fantasticnworld? The problem of the modernnnovel is—what will a madman do with andull world? In the fairy tales the cosmosngoes mad; but their hero does not gonmad. In the modern novels the hero isnmad before the book begins, and suffersnfrom the harsh steadiness and cruelnsanity of the cosmos.n—from Tremendous Trifles,nby G.K. Chesterton.nAUGUST 1991/19n