The New Republic has published annanniversary issue (1914-1984) devotednto its own history. Professor John P.nDiggins subtitles this epic as “seventynyears of enlightened mistakes, principledncompromises, and unconventionalnwisdom”—an absolution by way ofnparadoxes. In fact. Prof. Diggins’s reportnreads as a tale of foolish wise mennwho may always claim the privilege ofna time-warp or historical corrective,nwhich delivers them from all responsibilitynfor what they were “then” thinking,nwriting, and extolling. The immaturitynof a young Walter Lippmannnand the smelly Stalinism of a ripenMalcolm Cowley are not, to ournmind, the most honorable pages in thenannals of American journalism. Thennewest rendition of TNR under thenstewardship of Martin Peretz, for all itsndialectical arrogance and ideologicalnsuperstition, seems to us a vast improvementnover what TNR was in itsnheyday of “enlightened mistakes.” ccnABC launched Call to Glory with annheroic promotional effort during thenSummer Olympics. The series, whichnchronicles the life of a reconnaissancenpilot and his family in the early 1960’s,nis frequently described as unabashedlynpro-American. Obviously, ABCnhoped to cash in on the “New Patriotism”ngenerated by the games. Thenshow was an overnight success as millionsnof Americans turned with reliefnto a program which promised them anpositive vision—not just of thenmilitary—but of a normal, mainstreamnfamily. However, the favorablenreaction of the national press shouldnhave been a clue that something wasnwrong. The Christian Science Monitorncalled it a “tale of compassion andnunderstanding,” while the New YorknTimes discovered in it “the stuff of highndrama.”nOf course, some reporters werenafraid that ABC had sold out to thenPentagon. They should have knownnbetter. Despite the depiction of annessentially decent family and despitenWCHftOmClES OF CULTUREnAMERICAN PROSCENIUMnthe favorable portrayal of the militarynprofession, the producers of Call tonGlory have injected their episodes withnenough sugary plahtudes to trigger insulinnshock in the viewing audience.nIn episode after episode we are asked tonbelieve that military oificers in then1960’s were dewy-eyed over John Kennedynand Martin Luther King and thatnAdlai Stevenson was busy saving thenworld for democracy. Still worse, thenheroic Col. Sarnac is as calm as WardnCleaver and as nonsexist as Alan Alda.nIt took just one episode for the WallnStreet ]ournal to realize that Sarnacnwas only “a carefully concocted masculinenideal, humanized accordingnto Hollywood’s post 1960’s, postnfeminist, pacifist-but-looking-for-heroesnsensibility.” By November,nenough people had watched enoughnepisodes to make up their minds. Predictably,nthe ratings started to slide.nStill, ABC authorized the producersn—who also gave us such wholesomenclassics as The Burning Bed and RiskynBusiness—to film nine more shows tonfinish the season. After all, there arensome things rrtore important thannmoney.nccnRichard Brautigan was a familiarnAmerican type that has been with usnsince the days of the Yankee peddler:nthe self-appointed Job who wants tontake on the powers that be from hisnchair behind the cracker barrel, thenfreshman who writes a history of thenworld without a bibliography, the guttersnipenjournalist who runs the risk ofnbecoming rich and famous by attackingnPresidents—all examples of theninsufferable arrogance of the commonnman in the presence of somethingnbeyond his grasp. Ambrose Bierce atnhis worst, Richard BrauUgan at hisnbest. In one of his earliest books, AnConfederate General From Big Sur,nBrautigan took his best cheap shots atnmen who lived and died defendingnthings which a perennial dropoutncould never understand. The bookndropped out of sight as soon as it wasnnnpublished in 1965, but by 1968 whennit was reprinted, Brautigan was beingnhailed as the prophet of the counterculture.nIf Brautigan started out ahead of hisntime, fame and his contemporariesncaught up with him. Trout Fishing innAmerica made him one of many overnightngurus to a disaffected generation.nHe spoke to many of the same longingsnas Paul Goodman and Philip Slater,nbut he was a lot easier to read than anliterate Bohemian or a sociologistturned-philosopher.nOn occasion,nBrautigan could bring off a vignettenwhich seemed to make as much paradoxicalnsense as a line of Bob Dylan.n(In the 60’s we didn’t read, we meditated.)nAlthough he called his fictionsnnovels, he never displayed the slightestnsign of ability for sustained narrative.nHe had a sort of talent but nevernbothered to learn how to work or to benself-critical. Like too many young artistsnhe learned to live on his juices, butnby the age of 49 the juices had begunnto dry up, leaving the bitter aftertastenof pleasures that have not been paidnfor. At his best, Brautigan was a sentimentalnwise guy doing monologues fornhis friends; at his worst—especially innwhat he called verse—a poet manque.nIn his life and career Brautigan displayedna mass of contradictions oddlynemblematic of his generation: the darlingnof the drug culture who nevernused the stuff, the affectionate lovernwho could not bear to hear the namenof his second wife, the futurist whonrefused to learn how to drive, the mannof many friends who managed to killnhimself and lie unnohced for fivenweeks. In an interview with People (8nJune 1981), he confessed:nMaybe I’m an anachronism—notnof the past but of the future. Anportent.nPerhaps he was—an anachronismnwho started out ahead in the race andnended up so far behind he gave upnrunning. ccn