to grow and change for these characters.nThey represent a failure of insight andnsympathy. Barth has an abundance ofnwhat the Romantics called fancy, a lacknof what Romantics called imagination.nAbove all, the novel needed, but didnnot get, a cutting such as Maxwell Perkinsngave the manuscripts of ThomasnWolfe. Earth’s early story “Lost in thenFunhouse” is one of the best of ourntime, but an inferior retelling addsnnothing here. The same is true of ma­nterial from other earlier works. In thenparts that are not duplications, so manynencyclopedias of assorted informationnhave been dumped. All those lists ofndates, people, events. There is a list ofnfamous cuckolds in history and literature.nThere are footnotes to leadingnmythologists. One is reminded of thenGuinness Book of World Records ornThe Book of Lists. Emerson had thenword for it: “a stupor of knowledgenlacking inwardness.” DnThe Vicissitudes of Effectnand StylenTom Wolfe: The Right Stuff; Farrar,nStraus & Giroux; New York.nby Edward J. WalshnIn Radical Chic, published about tennyears ago, Tom Wolfe never stoppedntaunting his subjects, Leonard Bernstein,net al.: “Deny it if you want to!”nhe kept repeating, as he described overnand over what a pathetic ass Bernsteinnmade of himself by hosting a soirfee forna crew of political hoodlums who callednthemselves the Black Panthers. In ThenRight Stuff, the newest of his manynbooks, Wolfe again leaves his victimsntarnished, not twisting aptly in the windnlike Bernstein and his fellow radicalnjet-set groupies, but stripped of the thinnveneer of beatitude they unconsciouslynsought. They are, of course, the firstnseven astronauts of Project Mercury,nAmerica’s first grand venture into space,nand the numberless political and medianhacks who tried to deify them.nWolfe’s book is skillful and enthrallingnbecause he evokes poignant memories,neven in those of us who were then children,nof that less complicated time whennvictories, and only victories—in war,ndiplomacy, and science—were not hopednMr. Walsh is on the staff of the UnitednStates Industrial Council.nznChronicles of Culturenfor, but expected by the American people.nThe launch of the tiny Soviet Sputniknin 1957 is often pointed at, perhapsnaccurately, as an event that presaged annew era, the Space Age. But it was alsona signal of the onset of a dogged, comefrom-behindneffort by the Soviet Unionnto be first in a world of technology undreamednof five years before. They lostnthe race to the moon, of course, butnwere curiously unmoved on the occasionnof America’s first lunar landingnten years ago. The reason is now known:nwhile America channeled its scientificnadvances into projects like Viking andnPioneer, their missions so obscure asnto be indecipherable to the generalnpublic, the Soviets turned their effortsnto nuclear ballistic missiles. And theynare still at it, while we see marvelousnphotos of Saturn on the evening news.nThe triumph of Wolfe’s book is thatnthis point is made so utterly clear. Thenfear of what Russia would do with itsnsatellites is what pushed Congress intonfunding Project Mercury until itnachieved a few modest successes, afternwhich the space program became a vehiclenfor electing congressmen andnmaking money for magazines. A visionnof what it all was to mean for the countryn—aside from the public-relations coupsnand some scientific advances—wasnnnnever there. So there is a rub of sadnessnin Wolfe’s sarcasm, for he nurses annidiosyncratic patriotism in his manabout-townnpersonality. If he skewersnthe pols and the writers, it is becausenhe believes they somehow led the astronautsnastray, diluting their righteousnstuff with cut-rate mortgages and magazinencontracts, until the astronauts andntheir families became cult heroes, innthe mold of the ultimate cult hero ofnthat day, John F. Kennedy.nBut it has not always been so, asnWolfe eloquently teaches. The RightnStuff is the spiritual quality of the testnpilot, who every day takes a two-tonnmachine aloft, “pushing the outside ofnthe envelope,” the point where only thenpilot’s coolness, skill, and his metaphysicalnstuff can bring him back before thenplane loses its aerodynamics and disintegratesnin white-hot jet fuel flames,ncharring the pilot beyond recognition, asnWolfe jarringly describes it. In 1952,nat Edwards Air Force Base, sixty-twonpilots died in the course of 36 weeks ofntraining, a rate of 1.7 per week. In thenNavy, Wolfe explains, there was a 23npercent chance that a career pilot wouldndie in an aircraft accident, and a 56 percentnpossibility that he would somedaynhave to eject from a plane. The testnpilots took absolute, exhilarating pleasurenin these risks; obviously, those thatndied just didn’t really have the RightnStuff. “Flight test,” as it was called,nwas the nobility of military flying, secondnonly to combat experience, whichnas the fifties progressed, fewer of themnhad. Of the first seven astronauts, selectednfrom volunteers, three—ScottnCarpenter, Gordon Cooper, and AlannShepard-had not flown in combat. Atnfirst, it was a touchy subject amongnthem. They were all heroes, as Wolfenassures us, even though we now tendnto be incredulous on learning thatnJames Reston of the New York Timesnturned away from that first press conferencenin 1959, when the OriginalnSeven were introduced, confessing thatnhis heart beat faster after meeting them.nEvery heart in America did, in thosen