will be in some indefinable but real sensensadder, less exuberant. He will find himselfnboth inwardly and outwardly a negativenreference point, a counterversionnof the American impulse.nSeveral strategies can be taken by thenSouthern writer who aims to succeed.nOne is to be so good that the world mustnmeet him on his own terms. Another isnto adopt an adversarial posture. Both ofnthese approaches are very difficult, perhapsntoo tough, for the pedestrian writer.nHowever, those who take up the challengenoften reap benefits. The pain andneffort involved may enhance the visionnthat the writer brings to his work, enablingnhim to fulfill the burden of hisncreative urge in a high manner.no ne other strategy is possible. Thenwriter can go over to the enemy withnthe zeal of a convert. Confirm with firsthandntestimony the truth of all of thenenemy’s conclusions about his own folk.nIn this approach, liability can be turnedninto an asset. One can mouth the acceptedncliches with an exotic panache.nLiberals like nothing better than to havenall the angels on their side, to co-opt bothnsides of the argument. Consequently, innthe 1960’s there was a spate of books bynliberals attempting to prove that “truenconservatives” agreed with liberals aboutneverything important. People who disagreednwith liberals could only be pseudoconservatives.nWhat could be morenreassuring to the intellectuals of NewnYork than to know that all “good Southerners”nagree with them about the Southnand nearly everything else?nThus Styron. Or at least, so we can disposenof Styron the political and socialncommentator, though I confess to be anlitde less sure about Styron the artist.nOne of his pieces herein is a defense ofnthe license of the historical novelist. In ankind of reply to both the militant blacknand the academic critics of The Confessionsnof Nat Turner he argues eloquentlynand convincingly that the novelist shouldnnot be too tightly bound to literal historicalnfact, that it is his duty to find newnmeaning in historical events by applyingnChronicles of Culturenimaginative vision to them. Quite true.nThe problem is that what Styron finds innhistory is not a new meaning but a liberalnconvention. The paucity of his artisticnvision is evident when The Confessionsnof Nat Turner is compared to Faulkner’snAbsalom, Absalom! or Andrew Lytle’snVelvet Horn. Faulkner and Lyde conveyna sense of history and a moral vision ofn••’MMDUSI lii;u”l is iiMi;ill in llu’ riulit nlin.nmajesty and complexity. Styron’s historynis flat and his morality is superficial.nCould it be that the too-easy accommodationnStyron has made between thenNew York intelligentsia and his real selfnhas forestaUed his highest developmentnas a writer, deprived him of the profoundernvision that others have achievednwith perhaps no greater gifts?nThe substitution of narrow, fashionablynpoliticized views in This Quiet Dustnand Other Writings is compounded bynthe fact that here he obviously aspires tonbe seen as a social and political thinker.nThe subjects are typically conventionalnand the conclusions crafted to guaranteenpredictable responses. Few writers havenrun the gamut of fashion so wide and sonwell: blacks. Southern guilt, the Holocaust,nthe military, environmental pollution,nthe 1968 Chicago riots, “Lollipops”n(the title of one section of his book, referringnto prematurely despoiled youngnwomen), capital punishment, Christiikenfelons suffering from a bad environmentnand a callous public, the tawdriness ofneverything American, normal, and average.nIt is not so much the conventionalitynof his subject matter that palls as the conventionalitynof his response to it. Styron’snmastery of language does not redeemnthe flatness of his perception. Henis at his best when his vision is notnstrained through the filter of fashion. Hisnpieces on other writers (e.g., Fitzgeraldnand Thomas Wolfe) are shrewd, sincere,nand often generous. When he doesn’t attemptnto make social judgments he cannbe eloquent and moving, as in his descriptionnof his native Tidewater. And innnnhis musings on war he makes one of hisnoccasional dissents from liberal shibboleth.nHe eschews, if I understand himncorrectly, a blanket condemnation of thenAmerican military, accepts the inevitabilitynof wars, and insists on adherence tonold-fashioned codes of civilized warfare.nBut then one remembers that these occasionalndissents are only a kind of spice ton—civ York Tinii’s linoli Kciit’irndress up the blandness of the fare, idiosyncraticnpersonal gestures that in nonway compromise ideological conformity.nr^aulkner drew on the vestigial aristocraticnaloofness of his Southern backgroundnfor a catholic magnanimity tonhumanity; Styron uses it for purposesnmerely cavalier and self-indulgent. Nowherenis this self-indulgence more evidentnthan in the author’s flirtation withnthe criminal, which he recounts at lengthnand candidly in a section entitied “Victims.”nThe “victims,” of course, are thenperpetrators, not the objects of criminalnacts. Styron and George F. Will led a successfulnmovement to save a confessednmurderer from execution by the State ofnConnecticut. Some years later, whennthis individual was about to be paroledninto Styron’s care, he escaped prison,nkidnapped and raped a suburban housewife,nand terrorized three children. Styronnadmits that he was glad it was not hisndaughter who was raped, but declaresnthat he feels no guilt for his role in thenmatter. His special vision of service tonthe oppressed and neglected and redeemablencriminal cannot be deflectednby the sufferings of a few accidentalnvictims.nHowever, Styron’s self-examinationsnon crime and punishment can be candid,ndeeply probing, and they sometimesncontain a redeeming remnant of Christianncompassion. What they lack is the greatnartist’s (and the great believer’s) encompassingncompassion. Ultimatelynthere is an irresponsible moral posturenthat takes up the criminal out of disdainn