(who were clearly privy to highly classifiedninformation and all of whom eitherninstigated or supported the U.S. involvementnin Vietnam) dictated to them whatnthey should teach, preach, paint andncompose? Once again, civilization hasnat its root a sense of order, of decorumnand an awareness of the demarcationsnand limitations of institutions and thenindividuals who both serve, and arenprotected by, such institutions.nV>offin, after a patrician upbringingnin a New York penthouse-apartment andna summer home on Long Island (completenwith Swiss governess, chauffeurnfor the Lincoln, etc.) spent some time,nafter prep-school (which he found “toonorderly’ ) in Paris and Geneva. Hendropped his dream of being a musicalnconductor for that of a concert pianistnand actually gave a private performancenfor Cortot and met Paderewski. YalenDivinity School appears to have persuadednhim that the Church was his truenvocation but in reality he never left thenstage. His childhood dreams of conductor/concert-pianistnwhile revealing,nomit the compulsive histrionic facet ofnhis personality. It is as an actor andnmanipulator (and this is not intendednwholly pejoratively) that his true talentsnare displayed until he eventually comesnto believe that he is the only true con­nscience of the nation.nNowhere is this fusion of spiritualnpride fhybris), guWihility and trendinessnmore directly revealed than in his muchpublicizednand much-photographed visitnto the Justice Building. Only four peoplenwere allowed to enter, among them onenDickie Harris, “a real eye-catcher. Henwas black, tall and skinny, clad in a whitenT-shirt covered with buttons, each withna date commemorating some event ornthe founding of some movement, onenfor almost every day of the year. He hadna bushy Afro . . . and I wasn’t the leastnsurprised to find he came from Berkeley.”nThe four met with John McDonough,nAssistant Deputy Attorney General,nwhom they asked if the Departmentnintended to investigate the alleged warncrimes in Vietnam. Then:n”Very slowly, his (Dickie’s) roving eyesncarefully avoiding Mr. McDonough, henasked quietly, ‘Man, are you going to hearnme.’ Mr. McDonough looked puzzled. ‘Yes,nMr. Harris. I’m listening.’ Instantly Dickienslammed his hand down on the table.nStaring straight at McDonough henshouted, ‘I didn’t say listen, I said hearnme, man’ . . . Slowly (Dickie) leanednforward, all the while looking intently intonMcDonough’s eyes. Then once again verynquietly—until he reached the last syllablenof the last word which came out likencannon shot —he said, ‘Man . . . you . . .nIn the forthcoming issue of the Chronicles of Culture:nThat’s Entertainmentn”If dime books and Elinor Glyn were the leisure fiction ofnthe lOs, i:.dgar Wallace of the ’20s, Vicky Baum of then’30s, Raymond Chandler of the ’40s–we now have enterednthe post-Mickey Spillanc era. Jacqueline Susann and HaroldnRobbins are its conditioners of minds and consciences. Theynand their imitators have turned the gist of entertainmentnliterature from sensationalism and luridness to depravity.nTheir programmatic cynicism is so extreme that they arousenthe suspicion that they are preordained by somenideological forces.'”n10nChronicles of Cultarcnfrom CommentnAlso:nCommendables -• In Focus — Waste of Money —nThe American Scene — Journalism —nPolemics & Exchanges.nnndon’t… exist. We’re going to ignore you,nman, you’re nothin’.’ His scorn wasnmagnificent but after five minutes Ininterrupted him. I think Mr. McDonough’snheard you by now, Dickie. So let’s ask himnif he has anything he wants to say to us.’nMcDonough shot me a grateful glance.n’As a matter of fact,’ he said. ‘I do havensomething that I would like to say.’ Reachingninside his coat he pulled out a typednstatement. Clearing his throat he was aboutnto read it when with a great show ofnoffended credulity Dickie leaped to hisnfeet. ‘Man,’ he said. ‘You ain’t gonna readnthat?’ ‘That was my intention, Mr. Harris.’n’Well I ain ‘t gonna listen. See you catsnlater,’ With that he swung himself out ofnthe room, his hands on his hips, everynmovement grace itself.”nWhat must be apparent is that thenthinker, the theologian Coffin is seeminglynunaware that “the sleep of reason,nbreeds monsters,” and he is mesmerizednby the drama and apparent virility of thisnbuffoon. The latter in his arrogant andnignorant self-sufficiency representsn”grace itself” while the good-manneredncourteousness of McDonough is pilloried.nIt is difficult, however, if notnimpossible, to imagine a fairer and justernsociety being founded by adherents andnadmirers of the puerile posturings of then”Dickies” of this world. “Dickie” in hisnrefusal to recognize McDonough’s existencenand his blind refusal to hear anynevidence which may challenge his preconceivednopinions epitomizes preciselynthe blinkered attitudes which Coffin findsnso distasteful and abhorrent in thosenhe opposes.nWe leave Coffin, his second marriagenin ruins, a more pensive and lessnarrogant man. “Men never do evil soncheerfully as when they do it fromnreligious conviction,” wrote Pascal. Certainlynno one who reads this compulsivelynabsorbing and haunting book couldnaccuse Coffin of “evil.” One merely hopesnthat in his current position as seniornminister at the Riverside Church in NewnYork he has, belatedly grasped the truthnof the old pietist phrase, which he himselfnquotes, “to let go and let God.” Dn