Kuralt’s On the Road program is contemptuouslyndismissed as merely concernednwith “harmless eccentrics,” whongive the false impression that ruggednindividualism is still possible innAmerica. Gans echoes the resentmentnof local journalists that the networksngave favorable coverage to the IowanAmish trying to prevent their childrennfrom being herded into public schools.nIn case you hadn’t noticed, Gans reportsnthat the media are biased against NewnYork City! (As an instance of journalisticntimidity Gans cites the reluctancenof one magazine to do a cover story ofnTiny Tim, the now-forgotten camp popnsinger of a few years ago.)nOn rare occasions, Gans seems to bengetting a hazy glimpse of the real situation,nas in the following: “Lacking contactsnwith working-class sources, fornexample, the journalists’ conception ofnthem was influenced by the hard-hatsnwho made news during the VietnamnWar, and by Archie Bunker, a fictionalnworking-class character developed bynupper-middle-class professionals innHollywood.” One wants to say here:n”Good, Herbert! You are beginning tonget it. Keep going, Herbert.” But, alas!nHerbert drops the ball. Such brief insights,nif pursued, would require anwholesale rethinking of Gans’ entirenunderstanding of the media. A few pagesnlater he drops, without comment, thenastounding information that magazineneditors sometimes deliberately set outnto offend their more traditional-mindednreaders, in the hope that they will cancelntheir subscriptions and thus leave behindna properly “advanced” kind ofnaudience.nrveading the book, 1 kept thinkingnabout the most outrageous recent examplenof media bias—the Jonestown horrorn—and what light Gans could shed onnsuch incredible distortion of the truth.nUntil the facts were finally undeniable,nthe media either treated the People’snTemple as a benign institution or as ancrazy religious sect, instead of as thenmurderous, Marxist microcosm that itnI S H M M H ^ H ^nChronicles of Culturenwas. In Gans’ system such a thing couldnnot have happened, because the medianare supposedly hostile to political radi­nTruths and ImagesnJuliana Geran Pilon: Notes from thenOther Side of Night; Regnery/Gateway;nSouth Bend, Indiana.nby Becki KlutenJbragility, a sad thoughtfulness, ancertain wariness are one’s immediatenimpressions of the jacket photo of thenauthor. She seems very young to be anprofessor of philosophy, or to havenfashioned such a document. The Romanian,ntotalitarian, reality wasnthe only one she knew until her familynfinally secured permission to emigratenin the early ’60s. In 1975, it was withnan adult’s perspective, and an understandingnof a different. Western, realitynthat she parted the Iron Curtain to visitnher homeland once more—and she’snwilling to share the emotions, memories,npain which that visit evoked. She writes:n”… my diary was written not onlynfrom a need not to forget but also asna kind of warning; for those who havennever left their homeland, for thosenwho have never shed innocence, fornthose who cannot imagine the loss ofnfreedom, this book is a reminder thatnthere is another side of night.”nSharply juxtaposed against 1975 Romanianare her childhood reminiscences:nlike any traveler, she finds things thensame and different simultaneously. Shenfinds friends still at the same address ofn14 years before; “the parents couldnthereby avoid having to accommodatentotal strangers who would move in,nunder state authority, to take the spacenof the child who had moved out, whilenthe young ones would be spared thenMrs. Klute is on the editorial staff ofnthe Chronicles.nnncalism and overly respectful of religion.nWho will watch the watchers.’ Not,nI’m afraid, Herbert Gans. Dnanxiety of being assigned to live innanother city . . .” Certainly the statenwould not allow just two people to occupynspace enough for three. The state isnso concerned for its citizens that it paysnclose attention to such detail.nBut Notes isn’t about the state, notnreally. It isn’t even about communism.nIt’s about people and the banal evils withnwhich they dwell, thanks to somethingncalled communism. To an “innocentnAmerican,” Juliana Pilon’s book hasnsomewhat the same taste as a Sweetart:nher narrative is gently lyrical, sometimesnsad, sometimes amusing, always moving.nBut the biting reality of everydaynlife behind the Iron Curtain is very tartnamong sentiments, rather like a coldnslap in the face. Her very style mirrorsnsuch contrast; fond, even sentimentalnreminiscences cushion, but do not masknher incisive condemnation of evil.nSolzhenitsyn and others, of coursenhave chronicled such horrors. But seldomnhas anyone done it in her idiosyncraticnfashion. From the customs agentnwho cannot smile, to a flower vendor,nto a taxi driver, to old family friends,nthe people of Bucharest show such lifenas they can wrest from a system that isndesigned to stifle human existences. Fornsigns of life must be carefully hiddennin Romania. One doesn’t express angernwhen one must stand in line for an hournto buy a loaf of bread. Joy is manifestednonly at state-approved times and occasions.nAnd one never, never voicesndoubts, but merely parrots the propernslogans. The smell of oppression andnoutrage pervades everything. It is assumednthat an informer or agent isnusually nearby, so one is always carefulnof even “private” statements. The longnarm of the state reaches even here,nwhere Mrs. Pilon must “… refrainn