LISTENING TO GOLDWA7'ER
Why Not Victory?
By RICHARD GILBE:RT
The only alternative to victory is defeat.'
—Barry Goldwater.
IT was the middle of my regulation year in America. I was doing time in California, which had just celebrated its new title as number one State in the Union. At last, California not only had more swimming pools than any other State, but also more people. I was in Los Angeles where most of the people are split-level patio-dwelling, hamburger and chocolate malt munching fun- lovers. The University of California campus where I was based was skirted to the west by Sunset Boulevard—the ten and eleven thousand blocks where Jayne Mansfield and others lived. I spent many listless hours on the edge of the campus sifting the sand through my fingers and staring desperately along Sunset Boulevard in the hope of catching a glimpse of squat, bald, thigh-booted Teutons driving 1929 Rolls-Royces bearing sloe-eyed redheads who, as they passed me, would stroke a gold-plated microphone and murmur 'Please slow down, Max.'
Eventually it was put to me by the University Regents that if I wished to transfer my oglings from the campus boundaries to a more permanent booth on Hollywood Boulevard they would not stand in my way. I was dragged back to the steaming lecture-rooms to continue casting witty aphorisms about Western Civilisation to those who were unwise enough to have signed up for History la. My class was composed in equal parts of bronzed men in pale green shorts and volup- tuous girls with beautiful gums and ribbons in their hair. Somehow the matter in hand, be it Byzantium or the medieval papacy, seemed far, far away.
Every fortnight the campus invited a great man to speak to the students. I missed Herb (I Led Three Lives) Philbrick, but I caught Edward (Father of the H-Bomb) Teller. As the sun got hotter, so the speakers became more conservative. Los Angeles in June is like Marrakesh. The surrounding mountains seem to be always on lire: one match can destroy a millionaire's ghetto like Bel-Air.
After one of my classes a student came up to me. He was a friendly, inquisitive, fraternity boy who had recently joined the John Birch Society. We used to have long discussions about the extent of Communist penetration among Britain's doctors and the Communist strategy of debauch- ing America's youth with pornography. 'Come along and hear Barry,' he said. Until then Barry Goldwater had been just a name on a paperback cover. His Conscience of a Conservative had sold almost as many copies as Return to Peyton Place.
When we arrived at the auditorium it was fuller than it had been for any other speaker. Such enthusiasm for a politician was rare on the campus. The students spent long evenings in a restaurant called 'The Hamburger Hamlet' complaining that .contemporary politics had failed them. As no less an authority than Mort Sahl has remarked, all Californian students are idealists—until it comes to parking. But Barry's arrival dissipated every shred of apathy. As he
marched on to the stage everyone except me leapt to their feet—hands clapping above their head like a Milan football crowd. The ovation lasted two whole minutes. 1 used the time to examine the face and figure of Goldwater. As they used to say of Warren Gamaliel Harding (and we
know what happened to him),- looks a President. One glance at Goldwate's face and I knew it was made to be chiselled out of a ton of granite on Mount Rushmore. The smiling eyes, the jutting chin, the silver hair—all add up to the perfect Presidential physique. On top of all this he has a remarkable sense of humour. I believe he would make a very, very funny President.
Barry began his speech with a joke. It requires exegesis. Goldwater is Senator for Arizona. For years California has been feuding with that State over the right to divert the waters of the Colorado river. After the applause had faded away the Senator poured himself three glasses of water from the jug in front of him. When he had drunk them all he remarked, 'I'm glad to get some of our water back.' Not perhaps in the class of Thurber or Perelman, but it reduced 2,000 reasonably well-integrated youths to a state of mass hysteria. At the end of a further ten minutes Barry had provoked uninhibited cheering with his suggestion for the use of small, tactical 'nukes' in Vietnam. He described them as humanitarian (a category not yet recognised even by the most imaginative inmates of the Rand Corporation). Another five minutes and Barry was demanding the immediate overthrow of Castro by force. A wry grin flicked across my face. The audience surely won't stand for that Hopalong Cassidy talk. Not only did the young brutes tolerate it: they jumped to their feet and repeated the over- head clapping ritual. I cowered in my seat. I had heard of zealots but this was getting ridiculous. After all, some of those youths doing an ecstatic jig were people to whom I had communicated sage comments on the rise and fall of the Hyksos. Call this gratitude?
By now it was question time. 'Yes, I would do away with social security."Yes, I would with- draw from the UN if Red China was admitted.' 'Yes, fluoridation of water is something that can only be decided on the spot.' But the stature of the man emerged from his answer to the final question put to him by an earnest co-ed: `What would you do about the dispute between the Arabs and the Jews?' The Senator rose slowly and smiled at the girl: 'You know something, my friend, there have been Jews for many thousands of years. There have been Arabs for many thousands of years. We will never be able to change that.' To tumultuous applause Barry sat down. The audience loved him in the same way they loved Huckleberry Finn, Amos 'n' Andy and How To Increase Your Word Power.
My Birchite friend came up to me at the end of the meeting. 'Wasn't that the greatest? Straight from the hip. No goofing or Mickey Mouse politics from Barry. Bet you got nothing like him . back in England.' No,' I said, 'we got nothing quite like Barry.'
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