social experiment” and efforts to “takencommunism away from tlie communists.”nIf that was the goal, however, itnwas obliquely approached, for whatnCowley actually did was to join the partynin spirit and deed—at least in terms ofnspeaking, signing ads and petitions andnin his agreement with its principles andntactics—without actually accepting ancard and paying dues. This technicalitynmaintained, it is presumed, the cloak ofnobjectivity which journalists thennclaimed to wear.nThe transformation of the boulevardiernof Paris into the fervent anticapitalistnNew Yorker is described by Cowleynas essentially religious in tone andnimpact: he cites St. John of the Crossnand other familiar Christian symbols,nand even recalls that he and some ofnhis companions discussed the replacementnof Christianity with its heretical,nbastard offspring in all seriousness. Thisnargument is skillfully pursued; Cowleynis a careful and adroit stylist who doesnnot grow turgid, does not bore. Some ofnhis evocations are first-rate; particularlyngood are those of his trips to thencountry and a few weeks spent in thenSouth with cousins of Allen Tate andnthe agrarian circle which produced I’llnTake My Stand, He speaks very warmlynof these true heirs of America’s real lostngeneration, though he cannot repressncomments about the plight of sharecroppersnand some mild ironies of thenusual New England sort. Sandwichednbetween these humane and even slightlynpoetic touches are rapid, brief descriptionsnof party struggles, of rebukes bynthe comrades which “amused” and “assurednone of his standing,” and of variousnrallies, causes and the rise of NewnDeal factotums—some associated withnThe New Republic. Comrades-in-armsnare warmly praised; virtually nobodynappears whom Cowley admits to disliking.nClifford Odets, James T. Farrell,nGranville Hicks, Philip Rahv—all sortsnof well-known figures are held aloft fornan illuminating and friendly moment,nwith no hint of their later vicissitudes,nin which Cowley’s activities played annZinnChronicles of Culturenexacerbating role. There is virtually nonhint of this in Cowley’s retrospective;nhe bathes himself and his former associatesnin a golden afterglow of beautifulndreams. But the reality was far different,nfar less flattering to Mr. Cowley,nand far more damaging to this nationnand its people than he is ever likely tonadmit.nFor a realistic understanding of thenyears Cowley claims to recall, and to assessnthe importance of the tide of hatrednfor traditional America and all its valuesnthat poured from The New Republic,none has to turn to a more objective, lessninvolved, historian. Fortunately, one isnavailable. James J. Martin produced,nin 1964, a meticulous, detailed, documented,ntwo-volume analysis (AmericannLiberalism and World Politics;nDevin; New York; 1964). of The NewnRepublic and The Nation and their impactnupon foreign policy and the coursenof the United States during the 1930’s,nas well as of the activities of MalcolmnCowley and his coterie. Turning to thesenpages, we meet a Cowley who held thenU.S.S.R. and its interests above all others.nWe see a Cowley who traveled tonwas his contention then that those whonconfessed did so voluntarily becausenthey were guilty (Koestler theorized itnwas for the good of the Party and thenfuture of communism, a close cousin innthought); Cowley believed the purgeesndeserved what they received. We discovernin Martin’s monumental volumesnthat Mr. Cowley’s memory, which isnremarkable enough to recall the scenerynand the feel of a single summer’s daynand the look and mood of a New Republicndinner cooked on the magazinenpremises and served by a butler, is faultynenough to forget the damage done tonJames T. Farrell by the ideological warsnin which Cowley was the leader, and tonforget a great many other, even larger,ncalamities.nWe are, in other words, confrontednwith a charming series of literary veronicasnand other dazzling displays of capeandnfootwork. This is not unprecedented.nReadable autobiographies arennotoriously bad history and excellentnrationalizations. The political and literarynhistorians of the future will enjoynpicking through Cowley’s artful account.n”h wa.s an lioimrai’li.- and insjiiriiinj; dream . . . and iioiliiiia ihai bi.fi’11 ir lias niadi’nif vulnerabli.- lo derision ..n— Vhv ‘i’ir RcpiihlicnSpain during its civil war and whose lipsnremained sealed regarding the atrocitiesnof the OGPU in Barcelona and Madrid,nthe presence of Soviet officers in thatnstruggle, and the realities of the issues.nEven in Golden Mountains, with itsnnumerous copyright dates indicatingnGod-only-knows-what hesitations, redrafts,nerasures and improvements rangingnfrom 1964 through 1980, we do notnlearn that Cowley has fundamentallynchanged his mind from the attitude revealednin his partisan accounts of thatnperiod. We discover the past Cowleynfighting one and all in a series of savagencritiques of the revelations of Sovietnrefugees. We find him unwilling to criticizenthe Soviet purges no matter howngrotesque and chilling they became. Itnnnfor most of his anecdotes make excellentnreading. There is no question aboutnCowley’s ability; his argument that henhad a golden dream of a better world isnan appealing one. It does not, however,nmake intellectual sense that a dreamnshould lead a man to despise his ownnnation and accept foreign despotism.nCowley’s skill almost enables him to succeed;nhe presents his dream so well thatnit becomes, in fact, an appeal for othersnto adoptthat dream. By this performancenCowley seeks to absolve himself, andnsets a trap for the unwary and the unsophisticated.nHe does not need to go verynfar; many illustrious persons have brieflynbeen attracted to the false god of communismnand turned away when theynwere close enough to see its hideous vis-n